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ZoE’s Daughter. 





y 

ANNA HANSON DORSEY, 

*) 

Author op “Coaina,” “Flemmings,” “Tangled Paths,” 
“May Brooke,” etc., etc., etc. 



• ___ 

BALTIMORE: 

PUBLISHED BY JOHN MURPHY & CO., 

Printers to His Holiness the Pope, 
and to His Eminence Cardinal Gibbons. 

1888. 


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Copyright, 1S88, 

By ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. 


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Z , o e’s Daughter 


CHAPTER I. 

THE RAMSEYS OF “BUCKRAE.” 

“I say, Sam, is you put all them young tur- 
keys up?” 

u Yaas, and the dratted pigs, too ; the critturs 
seems to me to like grubbin’ for ground nuts, 
and stuffin’ their maws wi’ acorns, better’ n they 
does their reg’lar feed.” 

“That’s natur.” 

“They gives me a sight o’ hard runs, them 
pigs does ; sometimes I feel mightily like shootin’ 
one of ’em.” 

“You’d whistle for your bacon and sassage if 
you did ! You know’s well as I do, thar’s nothin’ 
to be made out of this barren land, and if it 
warn’t for my spinnin’ and knittin’ and slavin’, 
day in and day out, we couldn’t raise fifty dol- 
lars a year to pay rent for this shacklin’ or’ nary, 
tumble-down place ; no, not if we got hung for 
it.” . # ' 

“Thar, I’ll go right away now and give some 
nubbins to the cow — it’s a’ most time to milk.” 

“Be keerful of them nubbins, Sammy, the 
corn’s gittin’ pretty low in the crib.” 

“I’ll be keerful.” 

And then the two, a man and a woman, 

3 


4 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


walked off, each in a different direction. The 
woman was about sixty years of age, tall and 
angular, with pinched features and a hungry, 
anxious look on her wrinkled countenance, that 
told of a life-long struggle with adversity ; but 
there was a tinge of red on her high cheek- 
bones, and a keen expression in her light, steel- 
colored eyes, which indicated that if she had 
“suffered” she had also “grown strong,” and 
that the indurating process had preserved her 
vitality intact, and kept aloof many of the in- 
firmities incident to her time of life. She wore 
a faded, slouching sun-bonnet, which drooped 
over her forehead and ears, almost concealing 
her face and the corn-cob pipe, held with a firm 
grip between her well-preserved teeth, from 
which issued short quick puffs of tobacco smoke. 
A linsey-woolsey petticoat, and a dark dingy 
calico frock, hitched up on each side under her 
apron strings, completed the attire of Mrs. 
Martha — or, as she was commonly called, Patsy 
Meggs. 

The man with whom she had been talking 
over domestic affairs was her husband, Sam 
Meggs, whose health and vitality had been 
sapped by years of malarial chills and fevers, 
and fevers and chills, until long after he reached 
middle life, when, finding him too tough to kill, 
they* finally left him without energy or the 
power of will even to do; otherwise he had ful- 
filled his verb-like destiny “to be” and “to 
suffer” with extraordinary exactitude. 

A little patch of tobacco and a few acres of 
potatoes and poor corn, all languidly planted, 
worked and gathered in; helping to see after the 
pigs, which were the terror of his life; and tend- 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 5 

ing to the “ feathered critturs,” to prevent their 
making out-laying nests in the woods and “salt 
marshes,” filled up the routine of his drowsy 
life. He was spindle-legged and round-shoul- 
dered, and the only notable feature of his inane 
face was a pair of great, bleared, bluish-grey 
eyes, which wore a perpetual look of astonish- 
ment which I cannot pretend to explain. His 
gray, linsey-woolsey clothes hung loosely upon 
him, and his unbleached cotton shirt-collar was 
tied together with a strip of red flannel, while a 
bracelet of twisted eel-skin, both worn to keep 
off the “rlieumatiz,” adorned each gaunt wrist. 
He had on an old squirrel-skin cap, from under 
which flowed long untrimmed locks of yellowish- 
white hair, half bleached by age, half tanned by 
the sun. The old fellow smoked a short pipe as 
he trotted, with an indescribable gait, over the 
stubbly furrows, and left a streak of vapor like 
a steam engine on the bright evening air behkid 
him. 

For it was a bright lovely evening in October, 
as balmy as June, and tinted with all those rich 
hues of sky and woodland which make our 
American autumns so glorious. Even Mrs. 
Meggs seemed to yield to its witching influence, 
for instead of returning to the house as she had 
evidently intended, she sat down on the lower 
step of what had once been a stately veranda, 
gave her sun bonnet an energetic push back- 
ward, and dropping her bony sunburned hands 
into her lap, looked out at the sleepy bay stretch- 
ing dreamily^ away towaid the embraces of the 
ocean. There was a vessel rocking and creep- 
ing slowly along in the distance, its sails wing- 
and-wing like two gold tinted pinions; the gulls, 


6 


ZCX&’S DAUGHTER. 

flashing in the sunshine, and intent on the 
movements of their finny prey, hung fluttering 
along the edge of foam that spangled the shore': 
but Mrs. Meggs noticed none of these; with her 
hand shading her eyes she peered further out, 
intently watching a black speck that she dis- 
cerned bobbing up and down as it came land- 
ward. 

“I thought the nigger was drowned sure,” 
she said, giving her' head a jerk which implied 
satisfaction as well as relief; then she relapsed 
into silence, and straightway began to knit a 
coarse, blue yarn stocking, which she took out 
of her pocket, while the periogue (pronounced 
by the dwellers in that region, perryauger), was 
slowly paddled shoreward by its only occupant, 
an old negro man, who belonged to nobody, but 
stuck to the ancient possessions of his former 
owners, waiting to be claimed and taken care of 
by somebody, while, in the meantime, he made 
his daily bread and meat, by fishing aiid oyster- 
ing in the waters of the river and bay. He 
lived in the hut he was born in, which had 
formed a part of the “quarters,” in ole massa’s 
time, when “corn-cakes, blood-puddin’s and 
hog-meat” were plentiful. And they were very 
friendly, the Meggs’ and old Jupe, although the 
Meggs’ lived in the “Gre’t House,” and Jupe in 
his log-built, tumble-down old hut, which by 
dint of propping, and mud-daubing the gaps and 
fissures between the logs, he managed to keep 
standing. 

And “Great House” it was, although dilapid- 
ated and ruinous, and threatening to tumble to 
pieces as much from long years of neglect as from 
time. It was one of those incongruous old piles, 


7 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 

still to be seen here and there in lower Maryland 
and in Virginia, which was built in the days of 
Lord Baltimore, the first Lord Proprietary of 
Maryland: that is, the central portion of it, which 
had been added to by succeeding generations of 
Ramseys, according to their tastes and needs — a 
wing here, an octagon room there; at this end a 
library; at that, a billiard hall; and one of the 
race, more piously inclined than the rest, had 
erected a small chapel where the “King and 
royal family” were every Sunday devoutly 
prayed for in orthodox style. The original 
building was constructed of dark, square, glazed 
bricks imported from Holland, and the quaint 
window-sashes, or rather casements, were of 
lead. It was surmounted by a peaked roof, 
with a gallery running around above the eaves, 
which had in former days been of good service 
as an outlook in times of danger; the chimneys 
were built in stacks and highly ornamented with 
red tiles and bricks of a lighter color than the 
house; and, although the additions referred to 
would have set an architect half wild by their 
want of uniformity and harmony with the or- 
iginal plan of the building, “ Buckrae House ” 
presented, on the whole, a picturesque and im- 
posing appearance. 

In former times, those now mute and musty 
old rooms, where only the melancholy chirp of 
the cricket and the tick of the death-watch were 
heard, and whose only sounds of ch^er were the 
swallows which flitted and fluttered, and chirped 
the summers^ thro’ in the chimneys, were ever 
filled with sounds of gayety and revelry, the 
songs, the chatter, the music and laughter of 
beautiful dames, surrounded by brave and gal- 


8 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


lant cavaliers ever eager and ready to serve them 
in dance or fray. 

There were grand battues \w those days in the 
court at “Buckrae,” prancing of blooded horses 
and baying of hounds, when the fox was to be 
run to cover, and his brush brought home by the 
cavalier who gave him his coup-de-grace to be 
presented, with great ceremony, to the fairest 
lady of the ball, which invariably followed at 
night. There was never a lack of enjoyment or 
sport, for when wearied of hunt or dance, there 
was the broad silvery Potomac on which to sail 
and sing on the long summer evenings to the 
tinkling sounds of guitars, and the music of 
flutes ; and when the frost set in there was the 
bay with its islands of salt marsh, filled with 
canvas-backs, red-heads, and curlew, which gave 
practice to the skill of the gay gallants, none the 
less brave and doughty because gay, and filled 
their shooting skiffs with incomparable game. 

There was always great visiting between the 
Lord Proprietary’s family at St. Inigoes, six or 
seven miles distant, and “Buckrae,” whose 
master, Sir John Ramsey, had won not only 
favor, but rewards from Lord Baltimore for his 
doughty aid in defending the colony against 
Clerbourne and his piratical crew. 

Young Ramsey had been thrown upon Amer- 
ican soil by impoverished fortunes, and the gal- 
lant young Scotchman grew to love it, made it 
his home, and founded a family who were in 
after times the truest and bravest of those who 
fought in defence of American independence, 
and whose sons after them were for several gen- 
erations distinguished for their talents, their 
genius and their enterprise. But race deterio- 


9 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 

rates in this country, owing to various causes, 
and the Ramseys formed no exception to the 
general rule ; the best points that had made them 
famous gradually disappeared, until finally they 
fell in — no ways different from them— with the 
every-day crowd of life. While their slaves in- 
creased, without an increased area of land, their 
prosperity began to wane, they seemed to lose 
their mental stamina and even the noble air 
and handsome comely features that once dis- 
tinguished them ; their morals became tainted, 
they lost energy and all ability to retrieve their 
fallen fortunes, and could (mfifefind relief for 
their more pressing necessities^^ selling one by 
one their most valuable slaves, until finally but 
two representatives of the once proud and pros- 
perous Ramseys of Buckrae were left — Clyde 
Ramsey and one child, a beautiful girl, named, 
by a poetical fancy of her father’s, Zoe. 

Here in the deserted home of his forefathers, 
Clyde Ramsey spent his solitary life until middle 
age, when he married a fair young girl, of good 
family, but like himself impoverished, who died 
in giving birth to their only child, who grew up 
the pride and idol of her father’s existence. 
Time brought no improvement to his fortunes ; 
on the contrary, not a year passed without his 
being obliged to sell land and slaves, to meet the 
demands of his creditors for heavy debts con- 
tracted while “sowing »his wild oats,” and to 
supply the needs of his family, until he became 
a bowed, broken-spirited old man with none to 
comfort him except Zoe, now grown to fair 
womanhood, possessed all the loveliness and 
stately bearing of the noble dames of her father’s 
race, and also their pride. 


IO 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


Clyde Ramsey was a fine scholar ; and it was 
not only a labor of 4ove, but a solace to him, to 
educate his daughter and develop her intellectual 
powers, while he at the same time instilled into 
her mind a pride of birth and lineage, and fed 
her imagination on the former magnificence and 
prosperity of the Ramseys, until her soul was 
moved to the deepest pity when she thought of 
his losses, his fruitless grief and remorse over 
his prodigal past. Such thoughts as these con- 
stantly haunted her, and she longed for riches as 
the only means of reinstating him in his former 
ease and luxury, and bringing up their name 
once more to the splendor of its old traditions. 

“Never mind, darling,” she used to say after 
one of their long talks over the past, smoothing 
his white hair gently while she leaned upon his 
shoulder; “my fairy prince will come one of 
these days, or my enchanted beast; then when I 
am married, and ‘silver ha’e to spare,’ we’ll re- 
vive the glories of our old honorable name, and 
make a palace of ‘Buckrae.’ ” 

“Do you think such deliverance will ever 
come to us, Zoe?” he would ask, looking 
dreamily out into the distance, as if hoping to 
see some sign of promise spanning the clouded 
future. 

“Oh, yes!” she would answer blithely: “I 
am sure of it; I dream of it, and have thoughts 
about it which do not cftme of themselves; I al- 
most see visions of the substance of my hopes; I 
feel a prevision that a golden time is coming. 
Now I’ll run into the library and get Tasso, and 
finish reading the adventures of grand Sir God- 
frey and his Christian Knights.” 

Full of such aims and misplaced ambition, 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


II 


Zoe Ramsey refused two or three excellent 
offers of^narriage made her by young planters of 
the neighborhood. Once it was reported that 
she was actually engaged, and that preparations 
were in progress for the wedding; then it was 
rumored around the county that Zoe was mar- 
ried, and to a stranger. 

The following Sunday, after mass at St. 
Inigoes, when the congregation, before returning 
to their homes, stopped to exchange greetings 
and news with friends and neighbors who came 
from all the country side around, Protestants as 
well as Catholics, to attend service at the old 
Jesuit chapel, it was known with certainty that 
Zoe had married, quite suddenly it was under- 
stood, an old tawny West Indian, whom she ac- 
cidently met at Annapolis, having gone thither 
with her father to see some old papers relative to 
the transfer of a fishing shore he owned some- 
where on the Potomac. And report said that 
the old Creole was enormously rich, and had 
settled a splendid dowry upon. her. This is the 
substance of what the good people talked over 
that Sunday at St. Inigoes. The news came 
direct from Father Jannison, who performed the 
marriage ceremony, so there could be no doubt 
about it. 

It was substantially true, and before going 
away to her home in the tropics, Zo 6 generously 
divided her splendid dowry with her father, glad 
to have brought him ease at any price, but 
wrung to the h£art by the thought of separation, 
for she knew how lost he would be without her 
even during the few months that would elapse 
before he came to visit her, which he had prom- 
ised to do the following autumn. But they 


12 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


never met again. The parting embrace of father 
and daughter was their last. Clyde Ramsey was 
seized the very day before he was to sail for 
Cuba with a congestive, chill which terminated 
his life in a few hours, without a kindred hand 
to smooth his dying pillow; without priest or 
sacrament to whisper of hope or cleanse his soul 
for the supreme change. Father Jannison, long 
his friend and associate, wrote to Zoe, breaking 
the terrible news to her as gently as possible, 
and came over from St. Inigoes to see that the 
remains of the last of the male line of the 
Ramseys were laid decently away in the old 
burial place of his fathers. As priest he could 
do nothing, for Clyde Ramsey professed no 
creed, although his wife was a Catholic and Zoe 
had been baptized one, but having been educated 
as she was, she had never practised her religion, 
though claiming the Catholic faith as hers, and 
holding the Mother of Jesus ever in sweetest and 
most tender recollection. The thought of the 
Blessed Virgin Mother, without being devotional, 
was a perpetual rest and solace to her proud, 
desolate soul, which had prevented her from 
feeling utterly motherless, and saved it from the 
almost impenetrable incrustations that her habits 
of life, and the absence of all religious motive 
and practice, would have gathered over it. 
Mary was to her the model of a pure and holy 
womanhood, and without attributing to her any 
supernatural powers, she placed her above all 
women as the object of an exalted veneration, 
and thought of her martyrdom as the supreme 
and touching tragedy of humanity. But these 
reflections she kept to herself — her father would 
have deemed them weak and superstitious 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


13 


fancies. So, like something hidden in a niche, 
far in the innermost depths of a concealed shrine, 
Zoe preserved in silence this pure seed of devo- 
tion, this only one fragment of her faith vitalized 
by the baptismal drops, which had made her one 
of the true fold of Christ, drops whose efficacious 
moisture, often when hope is almost lost, spring 
forth into a living well, giving rescue to the 
perishing soul. 

Zoe’s education and training had been, as we 
have shown, more pagan than Christian, her as- 
pirations of the “earth, earthy,” and her aims 
altogether worldly, otherwise she might have 
found peacp, and a certain degree of happiness 
even in this life. 

After Clyde Ramsey’s death, “Buckrae” fell 
into neglect and decay ; the few slaves that were 
left betook themselves to parts unknown, except 
Jupe, who, faithful to the old traditions, would 
have felt himself disgraced had he abandoned 
the place in the absence of its owner. “It 
would be too much like poor white folks’ nig- 
gers, sich a thing as that ’ar,” he told Father 
Jannison, holding up his old bald head with an 
air of pride and dignity; and it was settled that 
he should remain. Also Sam Meggs and his 
wife, formerly overseer and dairy-woman, re- 
mained, and took up their abode in a wing of 
the “Great House,” “to have a keer of things 
’til Miss Zoe coined back.” And so for twenty 
years they had made a poor living off the ex- 
hausted lands, for which the agent of the prop- 
erty charged them a rent of fifty dollars a year. 

And here they were this pleasant October 
afternoon, going along the same old beaten track 
of years, with but one single idea beyond their 


14 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


circumscribed limits, which now and then re- 
solved itself into these words : 

“Took yere, Sam, I wonder if Miss Zoe ’ll 
ever come back ? ’ ’ 

And Sam would reply : “I raally do wonder, 
now!” while his big eyes glaring thro’ the 
tobacco smoke that issued in perfect clouds from 
his corn-cob pipe, looked like two pale lanterns 
in a fog. After which they would both relapse 
into a silence as profound as if they were trying 
to square the circle. 

Mrs. Meggs took her pipe out of her mouth to 
refill it, and as she pressed the rich brown shreds 
of tobacco down into the bowl, she sighed, and 
looking thro’ the thin belt of pines on her left, 
where the setting sun was making a great dazzle 
and spangling of gold among the quivering foli- 
age, said : 

“I do wonder if that gal will ever come 
back?” Just then a yelping from the old 
hound — ‘ ‘ Massa’ s old hound ’ ’ — caused the 
woman to turn quickly, when to her surprise 
she saw a tall female advancing toward her, who 
was clad in rusty black and closely veiled, while 
old “Bruce,” with strange and feeble antics, 
fondled around her feet, and attempted to leap 
up and lick her hands. The stranger stopped, 
leaned over and laid bpth hands — long, slender, 
tired-looking hands — on the hound’s head, and 
burst into a passion of tears. 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


15 


CHAPTER II. 

ZO&. 

“Laws a massy! Did I ever!” ejaculated 
Mrs. Meggs, dropping her pipe. “Sain! Isay, 
Sam!” she screamed; “come yere this minnit!” 

By this time the stranger, preceded by the 
feeble old hound, which kept up a tremulous 
whining, approached Mrs. Meggs, and throwing 
aside her veil disclosed a pale, attenuated face, lit 
up by a pair of sorrowful brown eyes, above 
which rose an oval forehead shaded by heavy 
braids of white hair. There was a stateliness 
and grace in her whole appearance which evi- 
dently impressed the untutored woman before 
her, for she arose and with awkward politeness 
dropped a quaint little courtesy, and extending 
her gaunt hand to the stranger, said: “Good 
evenin’ to you, lady!” 

“Bruce knew and welcomed me; <Tan it be 
that my old foster-mother has forgotten me?” 

“Has forgotten me!” repeated Mrs. Meggs, 
with a scared look, as, leaning a little forward, 
she keenly scanned every lineament of the face 
before her. 

“Have you forgotten Zoe, old friend?” replied 
the lady, taking the rough hand in both her 
own. 

“Daws’ a massy! it aint! — it aint! I’ll never 
b’lieve it; I can’t b’lieve it. I don’t mean 
no disrespect, lady, but Zo € — my little Zo£ — 


i6 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 


was young and bloomin’, and the prettiest crit- 
ter upon the yearth.” 

“And I am old and faded — but still Z06I 
Think of the long years that have passed, — 
twenty years. You know nothing of my sor- 
rows, — but I remember you. I know ‘Daddy 
Sain’ yonder, andjupe. Where is Uncle Jupe? ” 
said the stranger, looking around, with a kind- 
ling brightness in her eyes as she spoke the old 
familiar names. 

“Thar now!” exclaimed Mrs. Meggs, with a 
hysterical sob, “I see it now for the first time! 
I see it in her eyes, and in them proud Ramsey 
nostrils! Yes! I do b’lieve its little Zoe, come 
back at last! ” 

“Come back to die, mammy,” said the lady 
softly, as she gazed far out, through her tears, 
with a vague, sorrowful look, towards the bay. 

“Laws! don’t say so now! Hurry up, Sam! 
she’s come at last!” said Mrs. Meggs. 

“Nan!” responded Sam, in blank amazement, 
gazing from one to the other, and opening his 
watery eyes so wide that they looked as if he was 
going to walk out of them. 

“It’s Miss Zoe, Sam, — come back!” said Mrs. 
Meggs, coming to his help. 

“Won’t you shake hands with me, Daddy 
Sam?” said their strange guest, with a sad smile; 
for Sam’s appearance brought back to her so 
much over which she used to be merry in the 
dead-and-gone days, that thoughts which were 
rare visitants to her sad heart flitted like sun- 
shine through it, almost making her feel for the 
moment a child again. 

“I do b’lieve it is! ” said Sam .solemnly, while 
his voice quavered, and the floods began to 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


17 


gather in his eyes, fairly drowning them ont. 
“ It must be. I ain’t heerd that thar word this 
many a year; it takes me back to the times when 
things wasn’t as they is now. I’m mighty glad 
to see you corned back to yer own agin, Miss — 
Miss — Z06, my little gal,” added Sam, who 
fairly broke down and began to snivel. 

“Come in, honey. Its a sorry sort of welcome, 
— stop that, Sam, I’m afeard she’ll think we 
ain’t glad to see her, — a sorry sort of welcome to 
yer own house and lands; but Sammy’s wore out 
and forgetful, and I — well, I ain’t much better’ n 
he. But come and set here by the fire; it’s 
gettin’ chilly-like,*” said Mrs. Meggs, ushering 
her guest into the kitchen, where, snatching off 
her sun-bonnet, she dusted a chair with it and 
put it on again with a flourish. “There now, 
honey! make yourself comfortable, and I’ll draw 
you a cup of sassafrax tea right off.” 

“You still drink sassafras tea! How it carries 
me back to the old times!” 

“Yes, Miss Zoe, its mighty wholesome stuff, 
and plenty good enough for them as can’t afford 
to get better, ’ ’ answered Mrs. Meggs. 

“I’ve wished hundreds of times, while away, 
for a cup of hot, fragrant sassafras tea; the very 
thought of it used to bring me straight home! — 
but I must soon be going, friends, I left my 
daughter at the tavern over yonder,” said Zoe, 
pointing to the opposite side of the river; “and 
while I drink my tea, I will tell you my busi- 
ness. I have come back a widow, with barely 
enough to support me and the child, and I am 
going to live here at Buckrae; not to displace 
you, dear old friends, for I shall need your pro- 
tection, your help and care, and in exchange for 


l8 ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 

that I give you the land and house, rent free. 
Will you take us in ?” 

“It’s all your’ n, Miss Zoe; but I reckon we 
can manage,” answered Mrs. Meggs, who was 
weighing in her stiff American heart whether 
she was conferring or receiving a favor. “The 
rooms want a awful sight of cleaning, and the 
glass is broke out of the windys, and the 
carpet is rotted on the floors, and the rats and 
mice and spiders have took quiet possession.” 

“That is good news. I shall want something 
to do. I’m glad that nothing has been touched. 
I shall feel as if I saw the very footprints of them 
that are gone, on the dusty floors!” cried Zoe, 
passionately. 

“Nan!” said Sam, showing a rim of white 
over his eyes. 

“So I shall come to-morrow, with my little 
girl,” continued Zoe more calmly. “Have fires 
made in the ‘company room,’ and the one next 
to it, and let in the morning sunshine through 
open windows! I begin to feel as if I shall 
enjoy being here.” 

“Now look yere, Miss Zoe; wait another day, 
and by that time I’ll have things ready for you. 
Them rooms ain’t fittin’ for any human to sleep 
in as they be,” expostulated Mrs. Meggs. 

“I have made my arrangements to come to- 
morrow,” she replied in a tone of decision. 
“Give my love to Jvipe, and tell him to be at 
the landing when I come. But tell me,” she 
said, suddenly remembering, “is Father Janni- 
son at St. Inigoes yet? Perhaps he is dead, 
though, it has been so very long ago!” 

“Law bless you, no! Pie’s alive and well; a 
hale, hearty old man is Father Jannison, honey, 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


19 


and likely to end his days at St. Inigoes,” re- 
plied Mrs. Meggs briskly, for she was devoted to 
her good pastor, and thought, as she often de- 
clared, that “the snn rose and set in him.” 

“ I am very glad to hear it. I was afraid that 
he had been sent to some other mission, or was 
dead. I should not like to have found a stranger 
in his place,” said Zoe, as she rose to go. Bid- 
ding the two old people “Good-bye,” she went 
out, and in a few moments had passed out of 
sight like a shadow; then Sam and his wife, 
with a dazed feeling in their heads, relit their 
pipes and had a long silent smoke over the 
strange turn in their affairs. 

“But she ain’t Ramsey now?” said Sam an 
hour later, turning around with the sudden 
thought, after he had knelt down to say his 
prayers. 

“No; it’s something outlandish, — more’s the 
pity,” curtly answered his wife. “I never got 
the twist of it, and never want to. Ramsey’s 
good enough for me.” There was nothing more 
to be said, and Sain resumed his devotions, 
about the performance of which he was always 
very particular. Never in all his life was he so 
completely at sea: he got “Our Father,” “The 
Acts,” “The Creed,” “Hail Marys,” all mixed 
up in dire confusion with Zoe’s name, and finally 
had to give up, bless himself with a distracted 
air, and get into bed, with a singing in his ears 
that made him dizzy and afraid. 

Mrs. Meggs was up by dawn the next day, and 
lost no time in getting the long-closed rooms in 
readiness, as far as airing and cleaning them 
went. She rummaged in the old chests, and 
found bed and table linen, yellow it is true, but 


20 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


still having about it a faint odor of the lavender 
she had packed it in a few years ago; she hunted 
in dusty receptacles and brought out odds and 
ends of antique china, of grotesque shapes and 
rich coloring; and from a secret closet, concealed 
in the carved work of the pannelling, she drew 
forth, with reverential look, the last of the Ram- 
sey silver, a tea-pot, cream-jug, and a few spoons, 
all heavy and solid, engraved with the family 
crest, which she had guarded with the vigilance 
of a miser, and cleaned as regularly as if under 
a vow to keep it in bright readiness for some ex- 
pected emergency. 

“ I knowed how ’twould be,” she said to her- 
self, as she dusted each piece with a corner of 
her clean apron; “I knowed she’d come all of a 
suddent, so I kept it rubbed up ready, — if I 
hadn’t, what with salt air, and the mildew, it 
would a’ been as black as the pot.” 

Having got everything else in readiness, she 
brought up from one of the lower rooms a small 
black table inlaid with sandal-wood in quaint 
and beautiful devices; it was round, and its 
slender legs looked scarcely strong enough to 
support its weight, but it had stood the uses of a 
century as family tea-table at “Buckrae,” 
when there were no visitors and only the ladies 
of the house were at home. 

“She’ll like to see it here; it’ll look nateral, I 
reckon,” said Mrs. Meggs, as she placed it in 
front of the fire, and arranged the fine damask 
cover, and placed the china and silver ware upon 
it, ready for tea, as soon as Zoe and her daughter 
should come; then she stood off and surveyed the 
effect, which was highly satisfactory, as the red 
glow of the fire fell upon it, bringing out and 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


21 


blending the rich colors of the china and the 
sheen of the silver together in a mass of bright- 
ness quite dazzling to eyes which had been for 
many years accustomed only to a view of the 
rough-shaded side of life, its bare needs and ex- 
acting demands. 

When Zoe, holding her child by the hand, ar- 
rived about dusk, and was ushered into the 
warm, well-lighted room, her eye fell at once on 
all these nice little preparations, and she was 
touched by the delicate sentiment which 
prompted them; but her heart was too full to 
speak — she could only press Mrs. Meggs’ hand, 
and thank her in a few broken sentences for her 
kindness, then busied herself in taking off her 
child’s wrappings, to conceal and keep back the 
emotions which almost overpowered her. 

“You lay down on the sofv and rest, Miss 
Zoe; I’ll fetch up tea in a ininnit, and thar’s a 
old pictur-book Miss can amuse herself with; it 
was yourn when you was a little gal,” said Mrs. 
Meggs, as she left the room. Zoe threw herself 
down on the lounge, and covering her face with 
her hands, wept softly, as the memories of the 
past surged like a flood around her, while the 
child, Lucia, having opened the picture-book 
and thrown it aside with a scornful toss, sat 
glowering at the fire, her great black eyes watch- 
ing the flames as if fascinated, and in eerie con- 
verse with them, until Mrs. Meggs returned, 
when she fixed them in a broad stare upon her, 
much to her discomfiture, and followed every 
movement she made in placing the tea, toast, 
and other things upon the table, with such an 
unwinking, unearthly brightness that the as- 
tonished woman, feeling as if under some unholy 


22 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


spell, was glad to get back to her kitchen corner 
as speedily as possible. 

“I never did!” she muttered, filling her pipe, 
“She’s awful, that child; I never see sich eyes 
— not even Sam’s — in all my born days.” 

Mrs. Meggs could not sleep that night for the 
tumult her thoughts were in. She had begun 
to have serious forebodings that the arrangements 
she had just entered into would turn out to be 
neither pleasant nor profitable to her; and the 
question arose in her mind, if it would not have 
been better for her to continue paying the fifty 
dollars a year than to saddle herself with cares 
and responsibilities which would make great de- 
mands upon her time and her slender means of 
living. For time was money to this hard-work- 
ing, practical woman; and if she had to spend 
half the day waiting on Zoe and her daughter, 
and looking after their affairs, her own would go 
to wreck and ruin. Besides, that fifty dollars a 
year was her strong defence and buckler in all 
emergencies. She liked to fling it in Sam’s 
face, and use it as a moral spur when he got in 
his lazy moods. She enjoyed complaining of how 
hard it was to earn it; she felt proud of the 
ability to do so, when she talked matters over 
with her neighbors; it gave her a sort of proprie- 
torship in “Buckrae,” and at times a dreadfully 
injured feeling in being obliged to pay it. She 
had got used to it, in short, and it afforded her 
many advantages which she was loth to give up. 
Her thoughts were all practical, as her life had 
been; more intensely so, perhaps, on account of 
their limited range, and she argued over and 
over again with herself as she tossed uneasily on 
her pillow: 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


23 


“I’m willin’, and I’d like to do for her, Lord 
knows I would, for it’s plain to see she aint able 
to help herself much, for all she tries to, and 
Missy’s a mighty or’ nary sort of gal; but I 
reckon it all comes of livin’ in a country where 
they had a nigger for every finger and toe of ’em. 
Besides, I ’aint got store fixin’s fittin’ for quality 
to eat — corn-bread, and pork and greens, and 
sich like, day in and day out, would kill her in 
a jiffy; and if I go to killin’ my fowls, and usin’ 
up my eggs, the upshot’ll be that Sam and I’ll 
be trundled off to the poor-house in less’n six 
months. I’m sure I don’t know what’s to be 
done! As to Sam, he’s the stupidest old jackass 
that was ever born. So it’s no use talking it 
over with him; he’ll only stretch opener them 
eyes of his’n, and tell me to do the best I can; 
but I don’t see any best in it.” 

Then she turned over, gave her pillow a punch, 
and put her head down among the feathers with 
a determined resolution to go to sleep if the 
world came to an end before morning; but before 
she knew it, the hurdy-gurdy in her brain began 
to go round and round again to the same meas- 
ure, until she was fairly distracted. Not that 
Mrs. Meggs was a selfish or unkind woman ; she 
was by nature quite the reverse; but her lines 
had been cast in rough places, and the daily 
struggle, so hard and prolonged, had given her 
not only a keen perception of any situation bear- 
ing upon her interests, but the ability to cope 
with its difficulties. And now the trouble was 
that she could not see her way clear, and had not 
an idea of what would be the end of it. But 
towards dawn an idea presented itself which 
suddenly composed her. She would go over to 


24 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


St. Inigoes and talk over her difficulties with 
Father Jannison. She had been going to confes- 
sion to him for forty years; and if any living soul 
could help her, he could. Her heavy eyelids 
closed, her hands relaxed their clutch on the ► 
bed-quilt, and a prolonged, gurgling snore told 
that the tired woman was at length asleep. 

After breakfast, she started on her journey, in 
a small ricketty cart, drawn by a horse which 
was so old and bare of flesh that he had to stop 
every now and then and lean against the shafts 
to rest; but she was accustomed to this pleasant 
little habit, and having her pipe to comfort her, 
she waited patiently until he was ready to start, 
which he always conscientiously did as soon as 
he had recovered his wind. 

To Mrs. Meggs’ great joy, when she came in 
sight of Father Jannison’s quaint old house, the 
first thing she saw was the tall, burly form of the 
good priest, in his soutane and bonnet-carre, ' in 
the garden, seeing that his gardener properly 
banked up the celery-beds. The rattling of the 
cart-wheels on the gravel interrupted his pleasant 
occupation, and turning round he saw, to his 
great surprise, Mrs. Meggs, who got down, and 
throwing the rope-reins over a picket of the gar- 
den fence, opened the gate and walked in. 

“Why, what in the world brought you over 
to-day ! — is the old man sick?” said Father Jan- 
nison, shaking hands with her. 

“No; nobody’s sick,” she answered, shortly; 
“but — well — the fact is I’m jist in a peck of 
trouble, you see, Father; and I had nobody over 
yonder to talk to; so I thought mebbe the best 
thing I could do was to come and hear what you 
had to say about it. ’ ’ 


25 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 

“Why, my poor soul, haven’t you had trouble 
enough yet? I hope it is nothing worse than 
the gapes among your chickens,” said Father 
Jannison, kindly, as he walked with her towards 
the house. 

“Shaw, now, Father! did I ever come to you 
to cure my chickens of the gapes?” 

“No, that’s true; you never did, my child; but 
come in now and sit down — there by the fire — 
it is chilly to-day. Now tell me what’s the 
matter.” 

“Zoe’s come!” That was her uttermost 
thought, and she blurted it out. 

“Zoe! That is news indeed!” exclaimed 
Father Jannison, who was both astonished and 
interested. 

“With her daughter, a gal ten year old, a 
yaller-skinned, or’ nary looking piece as ever you 
see. ’ ’ 

“She has a child then. Poor Zoe! I expect 
it was a sad coming home; but why should it 
trouble you ? I should think it would be greatly 
to your interest, as she must be very rich.” 

“No, she aint rich. I think she’s poor; least- 
ways she said as much,” answered Mrs. Meggs, 
who then proceeded to lay all of her perplexities 
before Father Jannison, who pretty soon under- 
stood and appreciated the difficulty. 

“ It is the strangest thing I ever heard — her 
coming back in this way, and poor. Perhaps 
you are mistaken, my child,” said Father Jan- 
nison when she had finished. 

“I only know what she said; and if you seen 
her once you wouldn’t think she was very rich,” 
answered Mrs. Meggs. 

“Well, I declare !” said Father Jannison, tak- 


26 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


ing a big pinch of snuff. “I never was so aston- 
ished in all my life! Poor little Zod! I must go 
right over to ‘Buckrae’ to see her; and don’t 
you be cast down, for Almighty God is just and 
merciful, and knows how to work out the ways 
of His providence for our good.” 

“I never thought Zoe did right foolin’ of 
Allan Brooke the way she did, because he was 
poor, and she lovin’ of him, too, and engaged to 
be married to him. To give up such as him to 
go and sell herself to that old West Ingy mulatto, 
that a darter of mine shouldn’t a’ married if he’d 
built a bridge of gold over the seas for her to 
walk on. Jest see now how it’s turned out: 
thar’s Allan Brooke, he’s a Congressman! and as 
rich as the Ramseys used to be, and no end o’ 
money; and here’s Zoe coined home from the 
ends of the yearth, without a dollar, I believe, 
to her name,” said Mrs. Meggs, excitedly. 

Father Jannison’s housekeeper passed through 
the room at that moment; calling to her, he told 
her to fill a basket with apples, and bring it to 
him, and to put in a paper of dried cherries, “a 
big bundle, mind you, Nancy; they’re tooth- 
some things for little folks,” he added. 

“ For Zod’s little girl,” he said to Mrs. Meggs, 
as Nancy disappeared. 

“I’ll come to ‘Buckrae’ sometime this after- 
noon, my child; then, after I see Zoe, and have 
a talk with her, I shall know better what advice 
to give you. But be kind to her.” 

“I never thought of treating her bad; I was 
more afraid of her sufferin’ for what I couldn’t 
do for her, than for any loss or trouble she’d 
bring, though I don’t deny but what I’d be sorry 
to lose what I work hard to scrape together,” 


ZOK’S DAUGHTER. 


27 


said Mrs. Meggs, rising to go ; and, after shak- 
ing hands with Father Jannison, she dropped 
squarely on her knees before him, and lie laid 
his hand gently upon her old head and blessed 
her; after which, comforted by the benediction, 
she departed as she came, except that she had 
the great rosy-streaked apples and dried cherries 
to take home, whereas she had brought nothing. 

Zoe, all unconscious of the perturbation and 
distress that her coming home had occasioned, 
came down stairs about noon in search of Mrs. 
Meggs, and was standing in the broad silent hall 
wondering where she might be, when the distant 
hum of a spinning-wheel, and a faint odor of 
tobacco, guided her to a small side-room — which 
had in former times always belonged to the 
housekeeper — where she found the good woman 
spinning, and smoking her everlasting pipe. 

“Do not let me disturb you,” said Zoe, as 
Mrs. Meggs pushed back her chair, and took the 
pipe from her mouth; “I only wish to speak to 
you about something which I had quite forgotten. 
I have not been accustomed to think much for 
myself, you know, but it occurred to me this 
morning that I had said nothing to you about 
my housekeeping, and I came to say that I shall 
be obliged to get ‘Daddy’ or yourself to buy my 
groceries and other necessaries for me at the 
‘store’ across the river, and find some one who 
will take my clothes to wash. I will buy all the 
eggs and fowls that Lucia and I will need from 
you, and if you can spare the time, .when you 
are cooking your meals, I will get you to cook 
mine. Here is a list of things that I suppose I 
shall want, and here is some money to pay for 
them. I was too tired to say anything about my 
plans last night.” 


28 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


“Well, I was wonderin’ liow we should man- 
age, that’s a fact!” said Mrs. Meggs, with a feel- 
ing of immense relief. “I’ll go myself ’cross 
the river; the old man, you know, gits cheated; 
and then they ‘treats’ over tliar ! ” 

“Treats! what is that?” asked Zoe. 

“Whisky! ” was the sententious answer. 

“Oh! ” said Zoe, comprehending at once. “It 
will be better, then, for you to go, if you can 
spare the time; and please fetch me some sam- 
ples of pretty calico, I wish to put curtains up 
to my windows; the shutters are broken off, and 
there’s such a glare of light that it gives me 
headache.” 

“I’ll go right away and see if Jupe’s around 
anywhere. You know we always has to cross 
over in Jupe’s perryauger when we want any 
store fixin’s. I hope you feel somethin’ better 
for bein’ at home;” said Mrs. Meggs kindly, as 
she shook out her shawl and wrapped it around 
her shoulders. 

The veins suddenly stood out like cords in 
Zoe slender throat, a delicate flush dyed her 
white cheeks, the muscles around her mouth 
quivered slightly, and pressing her hand tightly 
over her heart, she turned towards the window 
and stood looking out for a moment or two, 
when, having got control over her emotions, she 
said : “I slept all night, and had pleasant dreams. 
I thought my father was here and it was the old 
time again.” 

“I’m real glad now that you did; it was a sort 
of welcome for you, honey, and a good sign,” 
said Mrs. Meggs, bustling amongst a pile of bas- 
kets, to get to the one she wanted. “ Stop a 
minnit, Miss Zoe; I forgot to tell you that Father 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


29 


Jannison’s coinin’ down to see you, and lie sent 
the little Missy these apples and cherries. I was 
coinin’ up with them just as soon as I finished 
that kreel.” 

“Thanks. How beautiful they are, and how 
very kind it was of Father Jannison to send 
them. I shall be truly glad to see him. Will 
you please take some of them for yourself, and 
carry the basket up to Lucia for me; I don’t 
think I could manage it; it seems very heavy,” 
said Zoe, as she drew her shawl closer around her, 
and pulled her veil down over her face; “and 
please tell Lucia if she wishes she can come 
down and walk with me. I will wait on the 
veranda for her. ’ ’ 


30 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER III. 

FATHER JANNISON’S VISIT TO u BUCKRAE.” 

But Father Jannison’s intention to go to 
1 4 Buckrae ’ ’ was frustrated before Mrs. Meggs was 
out of sight by a messenger who came in great 
haste for him to go and visit a man on the oppo- 
site side of the river, who lay dangerously ill. 
The case was an urgent one, and he was en- 
treated to lose no time in coming; so, without 
casting a glance at his frugal dinner, just placed 
upon the table, he hastened into the church, and 
taking the Blessed Sacrament from the taber- 
nacle, reverently placed it in the small gold 
case used on such occasions, and put it in his 
bosom; then placing the sacred oils, and his vest- 
ment and stole, in a small valise, he was ready 
to go, armed with all the succors of the Church, 
to assist the soul which in its extremity awaited 
his coming. 

But it was more a relief than otherwise to Zoe 
D’Olivieras when hour after hour slipped by 
without bringing Father Jannison. The sorrow- 
ing woman knew that the sight of him would 
start into life many things that had grown to be 
like shadows, and that her heart would spontane- 
ously uncover old and unhealed wounds; and 
altho’ she knew that this would be a great relief 
in the end to her overburdened mind, which 
had so long brooded over the griefs of her life 
in unspoken bitterness, yet she dreaded and 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


3 1 

shrank from it as one, awaiting the amputation 
of a limb shrinks from the surgeon’s knife. 

Towards sundown Mrs. Meggs returned with 
her bundles, quite refreshed by her jaunt and the 
pleasure of shopping, and after giving a strict 
account, to the smallest fraction, of her expendi- 
tures, and expatiating on the good bargains she 
had made, and the excellence of the supplies she 
had purchased, added: 

“But I clean forgot to tell you, honey, that 
the first person I saw at the landin,’ on t’other 
side, was Father Jannison, jest gettin’ into a gig 
to go five mile up the country to see old man 
Butler; they do say lie’s orful bad off, and not 
expected to live ’till mornin’ ; the Ford be mer- 
ciful to his soul ! ” 

Here Mrs. Meggs, who was devoutly religious, 
crossed herself, as did Zoe and her daughter, 
who both whispered a prayer in Spanish, which 
much impressed the good woman, who thought 
they were praying in Latin ; and as her ideas of 
that venerable language were limited to the 
familiar sounds of Church Latin, which, never 
having heard except on the most sacred occasions, 
she imagined it possessed a power of its own 
above all other languages. 

Zoe asked Mrs. Meggs to relieve her of the care 
of the provisions she had purchased. “Put 
them in your store-room, ‘ mammy,’ ” she said; 
they’ll last longer under your care than mine; 
I’m a poor manager; but don’t be afraid to use 
them; I have money enough to buy more when 
these are gone, and my miserable health makes 
it necessary for me to have plenty of good food. 
As to appetite, I hope the salt breezes from the 
bay will bring that in time. Let us have a 


32 ZOIC’S DAUGHTER. 

chicken and a turkey now and then; I can’t eat 
salt meat, and whenever anything is slaughtered 
in the neighborhood, keep this money to buy a 
joint or cut for us.” 

“ I declare ! Well, honey, I’ll do my best by 
you, you may be sure on’t,” said Mrs. Meggs, 
who thought within herself that the old magni- 
ficence of the Ramseys was not dead yet. “It’s 
bred in the bone of her,” she said in confiden- 
tial discourse with Sam that night; “and I tell 
you what, Sammy, we can lay by the fifty dol- 
lars a year now, for a rainy day.” 

“So we kin, Patsy,” he replied after a quarter 
of an hour’s reflection, during which his eyes 
expanded to the extreme limits of their elastic 
lids; “that are a fact; we kin save fifty dollar a 
year. ’ ’ 

And so everything was finally arranged to 
the satisfaction of all concerned, and the affairs 
of the household fell gradually into place, as if 
the present established order of things had al- 
ways existed, instead of being the outgrowth of 
only a week. The only drawbacks to the com- 
fort of Sam and his wife were, first, the difficulty 
they experienced in their efforts to pronounce 
Zoe’s name, which, unfortunately for them, they 
concluded it would be most respectful to ad- 
dress her by, but could get no nearer to it than 
“Deliver-us;” then the fact that whenever Zod 
and her daughter conversed together in Spanish, 
which they frequently did, it gave them an un- 
canny feeling altogether disturbing; and one 
day when Lucia got in a childish rage, and 
broke out in Creole Spanish, which she had 
caught from the plantation negroes, they 
thought her possessed, and putting their fingers 


ZOB’S DAUGHTER. 33 

in their ears, got out of hearing as fast as they 
could. 

Zoe D’Olivieras had selected what was, in 
days past, the state bed-room at “Buckrae,” and 
its suite of two smaller apartments, to live in. 
It was a grand old room, with windows opening 
towards the bay; high ceiling with carved 
cornice running round; chair-boarding black 
with age, and a great mantel-piece carved with 
skill in marvelous figures of bacchantes, satyrs, 
flowers, and fruits; while the fire-place, large 
enough to hold a cart load of wood, was set — 
the sides, front and broad hearth — with tiles all 
pictured with classic fables, some of them worthy 
of being framed. 

There stood the immense, higli-post bedstead, 
in which on several occasions the Lord Proprie- 
tary himself had slept; where the saintly Jesuit 
Father White, who had come over with the 
Catholic pilgrims, had reposed whenever he 
came, a welcome guest, to “Buckrae;” and 
where once the rebel Clerbourne, who had made 
a successful foray along the Maryland shore, and 
occupied the mansion, slept off the effects of the 
rich old wines he had not been slow to find in 
the liquor-vaults. The once rich hangings, 
brought from Antwerp, still hung faded, frayed 
and stained from the tester; the heavy carpet was 
almost rotted with mildew, and consumed by 
moths; the embroidered cushions of the heavy 
chairs were thread-bare and ragged; the low 
massive bureau, with its great oval swinging 
mirror, was out of order, tarnished, and so dim 
that passing faces looked like scared, ghostly 
shadows in it; and a heavy black wardrobe, 
standing in a recess, whose doors were covered 


34 


ZOIC’S DAUGHTER. 


with carved and inlaid work, still contained a 
few worm-eaten garments of brocade, Levantine, 
and slashed velvet, some shreds of yellow lace, a 
pair of spangled slippers, and some broken fans, 
which had belonged to the grandeurs of past 
generations. 

In a few days aftei the return of the lonely 
woman and her child, everything in this stately 
mouldy apartment wore another and more cheer- 
ful aspect With the aid of Mrs. Meggs and a 
friend others from St. Inigoes, hired for the oc- 
casion, the tattered draperies were removed, the 
old carpet taken away, and every nook and cor- 
ner cleansed, and well aired; the furniture was 
rubbed and its position changed; the floors were 
scrubbed, and polished with a waxed cloth; 
paint was washed, and the diamond shaped panes 
of glass in the casement were restored to their 
pristine transparency. Then Zoe, in her explor- 
ations in the lumber-room, found some strips of 
comparatively fresh carpeting, which answered to 
spread beside her bed, in front of her bureau, 
and before the fire-place. She was quite excited 
by the novel occupations, which brought into 
exercise so much of the feminine ingenuity of 
her nature, and was almost cheerful; then when 
brightly flowered chintz curtains were hung over 
the windows, and some old cracked china vases, 
filled with dried grasses and scarlet leaves, were 
placed on her centre table and mantle piece, 
with a ruddy wood fire crackling and gleaming 
on the hearth, the effect was not only pleasing 
and cheerful, but homelike. In a recess, just 
where the first rays of the morning sun shone 
upon it, Zoe placed a table which she draped 
with a richly embroidered India muslin slip of 


35 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 

Lucia’s, and spread on it a blue satin mantle, 
fringed with silver, which was used at the child’s 
baptism ; here she arranged a crucifix of Spanish 
workmanship, a statue of “ Our Lady of Dolors,” 
two vases of evergreen mixed with feathery 
grasses, while above it she hung a dark but 
marvellously beautiful old painting of a. martyr- 
dom reputed to be a Saint Cecilia. This sacred 
spot consecrated her home; it was her solace and 
consolation to kneel there and lay bare her grief- 
weary soul to the pitying love and mercy of 
Mary and her divine Son; to shed those tears 
which are more appealing to the divine compas- 
sion than prayer itself, and feel, if desolate on 
earth, a sweet sense of the loving protection and 
kindness of God, from which neither time nor 
accident could separate her. 

Having at length arranged everything to her 
satisfaction, Zoe began to feel the loss of active 
occupation, and now that she could sit down and 
think, the old lassitude and despondency came 
creeping over her; the phantoms of her life — 
ever lying in wait — each armed with a cruel 
sting, haunted her. Vainly she roused herself 
and sought to escape them by taking long soli- 
tary walks, by reading to and teaching Lucia, 
when the weather forbade her going out; but her 
best efforts too often failed, her will yielded, and 
she would sit for hours, her hands listlessly 
folded on her lap, given up to dreams of the ir- 
retrievable past. 

One bright morning, nearly three weeks after 
her arrival at “Buckrae,” Father Jannison suc- 
ceeded in getting over from St. Inigoes to see 
Zoe. It was his first opportunity, for there had 
been much sickness throughout the area of coun- 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


36 

try under the charge of the two Fathers at St. 
Inigoes, which extended many miles, and the 
faithful priests had been kept busy going up and 
down the river, and over corduroy roads into the 
back country, day and night, through sunshine 
and rain, unceasingly, until now that the heavy 
frosts had set in, killing the malaria, they found 
a little respite and repose. 

Zoe was more than usually sad that day; she 
had been reading over some old letters, and in 
one of them she found a few dried rose-leaves, a 
ring, and a bit of scarlet ribbon. There was 
not a word written — it contained only these 
relics, eloquent of a past and painful phase of 
her life. She started when her eyes fell upon 
them, and shrank as i*f some one had struck her 
a blow in the face; then, gathering up all the 
other letters, she threw them into the flames, 
while her face whitened to the very lips, and a 
dark-purple shadow gathered under her eyes. It 
was the ring, a half-opened rose, and a scrap of 
ribbon from the bow 011 her breast, that she had 
given Allan Brooke the day she plighted her 
troth to him years ago, and which he sent back 
to her, without a word or line, on the eve of her 
marriage with the rich old Cuban, Don Eduardo 
D’Olivieras. 

Father Januison could scarcely believe that 
the white-haired, broken-hearted-looking woman 
before him was the beautiful, proud, erect 
maiden that he remembered so well; and he 
thought, as she knelt for his blessing, “God 
bless you, poor child : if you have sinned, you 
have also suffered.” But he gave no sign of re- 
membering the past, or of his surprise at her 
changed appearance. He told her how glad he 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


37 


was to see her; welcomed her home with kindly, 
cheerful words, and took great pains to make 
friends with Lucia, who, after scanning him 
closely with keen distrustful eyes, had, as if sat- 
isfied at the result of her scrutiny, stretched out 
her small yellow hand, and knelt down with a 
pretty grace to ask his blessing; and when after- 
ward he said something playful to her in Span- 
ish, her great black eyes grew luminous, and her 
crimson lips broke into a smile, revealing two 
rows of small exquisitely white teeth; and before 
she knew it, she was laughing and talking with 
childish abandon to the noble looking, genial 
old Padre , as she called him; who, her eves and 
mouth excepted, thought her the most sallow, 
unattractive child he had ever seen, with her 
coal-black hair hanging in elf-locks over her 
shoulders, her person angular and ungainly, and 
her nose out of all proportion too large for the 
size of her face. She was not a Ramsey, that 
was certain ; she looked like a waif, and a stray 
graft on the stately handsome stock, and Father 
Jannison had at first almost a feeling of repul- 
sion toward her; then a pitying, tenderer feeling 
crept into his heart, and drawing the friendless 
child close to his side, he kissed her forehead, 
and determined to watch with fatherly care over 
her. Wnen Lucia left the room to go on a fish- 
ing excursion with Jupe, of whom she* was very 
fond, Father Jannison remarked: 

“She is like her father, my child.” 

“Yes.” 

“How old is she?” 

“Ten. I was ten years married before her 
birth,” replied Zoe, coldly. 

“Well, I hope, my child, that your life in 


zcxk’s DAUGHTER. 


38 

your beautiful tropical home proved as happy as 
your friends expected it to be?” said Father 
Jannison. 

“Quite as much so,” she answered bitterly. 
“My greatest enemy could not have desired 
worse than has fallen to my lot.” 

“Zoe, my child, sorrows are the lot of all; the 
Cross, of one sort or another, has to be 
shouldered,” said the good priest, whose heart 
yearned to solace the stricken being before him, 
but who had need — he saw that — to approach 
the subject of her sofrowful past with extreme 
delicacy. 

4 4 The crosses of our Own making are the hard- 
est of all to bear, I imagine. I should have 
sunk under mine long ago, but that my old 
tender love for the Mother of Jesus led me to her 
for help; and she led me where alone it can be 
found — to the feet of her Divine Son,” answered 
Zoe in calm, low tones. 

“That is good news, my child, the very best 
you could have told me. I congratulate you, 
from my soul I do, for you have that to lean on 
of which neither time, change, nor death itself, 
can rob you,” said Father Jannison, with beam- 
ing countenance. 

“Neither time nor death,” repeated Zoe, 
softly, while her hand moved slowly up until it 
was pressed against her heart — a habit she had 
of which she seemed unconscious; then, seeming 
to think that she was approaching too nearly to 
subjects which she could not then bear to con- 
verse on, she looked up for the first time full 
into the kind friendly face of her old friend, and 
with a sad attempt to smile, said: 

“Tell me, now, all about yourself, dear Fath- 
er; you are looking so well and strong,” 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


39 


“Really, my child, I fear I have nothing to 
relate that will in the least interest you. My 
duties keep me at St. Inigoes, where I find 
plenty to do all the year round for my scattered 
parishioners. You know poor old Father Lam- 
bretti is worn out, but he wears the harness 
bravely, and does all that he can to help me. I 
go on, year in and year out, exactly in the same 
way; people get married now and then; others 
get sick, miles away; some die every year: so 
we have marriages, sick calls, baptisms, and 
funerals, and once in a while the Archbishop 
comes to give Confirmation, when we have 
grand, high doings; and, by the by, I had al- 
most forgotten — I heard yesterday that annual 
excursions are to be made to St. Inigoes by the 
faithful of Baltimore, to celebrate the landing of 
Lord Baltimore and the Catholic pilgrims on the 
soil of Maryland. That will make us very gay. 
Then Piney Point, a little further down the 
river, is getting to be quite a place of summer 
resort. Why, bless me! I’m afraid that my 
primitive little flock will grow to be quite 
worldly after awhile !” 

“It will be very pleasant for the young peo- 
ple,” remarked Zoe, both interested and amused. 

“Yes, the happier young folks are, the better 
they are, I think; but, Zoe, my child, I must be 
going; tell me if there is anything I can do for 
you. ’ ’ 

“Thanks, Father, there h. I want a light 
single carriage of some sort, and a strong gentle 
horse that I can drive myself with safety. I 
wish to come to Mass on Sundays with my child, 
and to take long drives on the beach, and over 
the old roads, when the weather is fine. I’rn not 


40 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


very strong, and walking a few yards tires me, 
so that I have to sit down on the roadside or the. 
sand-banks to rest. I do not want an expensive 
turnout, but if you hear of something within 
two hundred dollars that you think will do, will 
you please let me know?” 

“To be sure I will. I think I know where I can 
get just what you want. I am very glad to have 
you and your little girl home, Zod, my child; it 
didn’t seem canny for ‘ Buckrse ’ to be so long 
deserted and given over to the rats and moths. 
Good bye! I’ll step into the kitchen a moment 
to see Sam and his wife,” said Father Jannison, 
rising to go. 

“But you will come again soon?” she said, 
with a wistful, sorrowful expression in her face, 
that told the good priest as plainly as if she had 
said it, how her heart was longing and aching 
to uncover its secrets to him — the secrets of the 
dead years of her long absence and silence. 

“Yes, indeed; I elect myself your guardian, 
and shall look after you faithfully. God bless- 
you, my child? ” 

“Thanks, dear Father,” she murmured, as 
she bowed her head to receive his blessing; “I 
accept the adoption gratefully.” 

On his way back to St. Inigoes — his horse 
going at an easy pace — Father Jannison was 
engaged reciting his Office, and thinking of 
nothing beyond it, when he was startled by some 
one galloping up full speed behind him, with a 
“How d’ye do, Father? I’m just returning from 
your house.” 

“Why, bless my soul, Allan, is that you ? 
You have absolutely startled old Bess out of her 
dignity — whoa! gently now, Bess!” said Father 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


41 


Jan ni son, soothingly, while he smoothed the 
neck of the frightened animal until she was 
quiet. “How do you do, Allan? You are the 
very man I wanted to see.” 

“Thanks; I am quite well, and entirely at 
your service, Father — what can I do for you? 
Would you like me to get a charter from Con- 
gress to make a city of St. Inigoes?” 

“Not quite: build a monument to Ford Bal- 
timore at St. Inigoes, and I shall be satisfied. 
But seriously, Brooke, I want to buy a light sin- 
gle carriage and gentle horse for a lady — do you 
own such a thing that you’d like to dispose of; 
mind you, at a moderate price? ” 

“Single carriage and gentle horse, for a lady ! 
My curiosity is at the highest pitch ! Who is 
she? Nobody in this neighborhood I’m sure.” 

“For a lady and her little girl; the lady is in 
ill health, and obliged to drive herself,” said 
Father Jannison, who began to feel certain mis- 
givings. 

“Well, now that I think of it,” said Allan 
Brooke, for it was he, with an amused smile, 
“I have got a trap that might do — a low basket 
phaeton that I bought in Canada a few years 
ago when my sister and her family were visiting 
me. It is rotting in the carriage-house, and I 
shall be glad either to sell or give it away. As 
to a horse, I have many more than I have need 
for. ’ ’ 

“That’s all right. I think my good patron, 
St. Joseph, must have sent you here this even- 
ing. I’ll give you one hundred and fifty dollars 
for the lot — horse, harness and phaeton.” 

“The horse is worth twice the amount; but 
seeing it’s you, and for a friend of yours, if you 


42 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


will throw in the odds by telling me who the 
lady is, you shall have them. ’ ’ 

“Good gracious!” thought Father Jannison, 
“I had forgotten all about that old affair, when 
I first spoke. What in the world shall Ido? 
But he’ll be sure to know sooner or later, and I 
might as well be frank with him now.” 

“Come Father! out with the mystery; it’s the 
only condition on which I’ll trade,” said Brooke, 
laughing pleasantly. 

“I’ll tell you, Brooke,” said Father Jannison, 

‘ ‘ but first let me assure you that I had quite for- 
gotten a certain painful phase of your life when 
I proposed this purchase to you. If I had 
thought a moment or two, I should have re- 
membered it, and gone elsewhere to get what I 
am in search of. Zoe has come back. They are 
for her. ’ ’ 

Allan Brooke started; then without uttering a 
word he dug the spurs into his horse’s sides and 
galloped off; but if Father Jannison could have 
seen his set teeth and pale face, he would have 
known how faithful, thro’ time and change, was 
this man’s love for the woman who, for gold and 
thro’ pride, had trampled it under foot, and 
sealed his future against all earthly happiness. 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


43 


I 


CHAPTER IV. 

WINTER. 

Two or three days afterwards, Allen Brooke 
sent the phaeton and horse over to St. Inigoes, 
by one of his men. It was a plain but stylish 
turn-out — the horse large, strong-limbed and 
gentle; the harness and other appointments 
handsome and complete. Father Jannison felt 
his heart sink when he saw it draw up in front 
of his house, and was deeply perplexed as he 
went out and walked slowly around it. 

“She’ll be wanting to know, the very first 
thing, where it came from — and if I tell her, 
she’ll send it straight back, although it is the 
very thing for her. Bless my soul!” thought 
the good priest, “ what an excellent r.ule it is to 
put your finger into nobody’s pie but your own ! ’ ’ 

“Is you ’most ready for me to be gwine, ole 
Mars’r?” asked the negro groom who had 
brought the trap across the river in a “ lighter,” 
a great flat-bottomed boat, square at bow and 
stern, of a kind much in use on the river for 
freight purposes. 

“Are you in a hurry to get back, Taffy?” 
(He was named EaFayette by his ambitious 
parents, but had been called nothing but Taffy 
ever since the day he was christened.) 

“Not ’till you’s ready, sir,” answered Taffy, 
showing his white teeth, and hoping in his heart 
that Ills holiday would be indefinitely prolonged, 


44 


ZOiC’s DAUGHTER. 


for he had some kinsfolk and a sweetheart at St. 
Inigoes, whom he wished to see while he was on 
that side of the river. 

“ Very well. Wait for me here for a half hour 
or so. I want to try this animal. But stay ! — it 
will take me longer than that, and you’ll have 
time to see your grandmother and get your din- 
ner before I come back. You’re sure they won’t 
be waiting for the lighter over there?” 

“Not as I knows on, sir,” said Laffy, still 
holding his scrap of a nondescript hat lifted, 
while his dusky face fairly glowed with delight. 

“Be off with you, then,” said Father Jannison, 
as he seated himself in the phaeton, gathered up 
the reins and drove .towards ‘ ‘ Buckrae. ’ ’ He had 
decided on a plan of tactics which seemed to 
smooth away his difficulties; he would leave the 
trap with Sam Meggs or Jupe, as the case might 
be, and, without seeing Zoe, leave a message, 
and start back immediately on foot for St. Ini- 
goes, the walk being nothing on such a clear 
bracing day as this. “It would do no good for 
me to see her, and might do mischief. She 
would be sure to ask me a hundred questions. 
So I wont even ask where she is — but, being in 
a great hurry to get back, will leave word that 
by a lucky accident I heard of and bought the 
horse and phaeton for her — and if she don’t like 
them after a trial, they can be sent back. Then 
I shall get away as quickly as possible.” Thus 
ran Father Jannison’ s thoughts as he drove 
swiftly over the smooth, level roads, until, sooner 
than he desired, he saw the chimney stacks of 
Buckrae above the trees. How far his diplomacy 
would have been successful had he been obliged 
to exercise it we cannot say, for there was no- 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


45 


body when he got there except Jupe, who was 
just sallying shoreward, his fishing tackle on one 
shoulder, his oyster-tongs over the other. 

“Glad to see you, ole Mars’ r,” said the old fel- 
low, pulling off his tattered, high-peaked, broad- 
brimmed hat, while a gleam of welcome shot 
from under the film of his small sunken eyes. 
“I’se mighty glad to see you, sir; but our folks 
is all gone, I b’lieve. Mars’ r Sam and de ole 
Missis is in de fur field yander, hoein’ up de win- 
ter ’taters; but Lord ’a massy, Mars’ r Janni- 


“Look here, Uncle Jupe, my good old friend, 
I’ in in a great hurry to get back to St. Inigoes, 
where a person is waiting for me,” interrupted 
Father Jannison, inexpressibly relieved to find 
the place deserted; “this turn-out is Miss Zoe’s 
— she has bought it — and as I have to hurry 
back, do you put down your oyster-tongs and 
lead the horse. But where are Miss Zoe and the 
little girl? ” 

“I was jest gwine to tell you, sir. Dey went 
walking a good hour ago. I ’spose dey’s down 
at de old wrack, where dey most in gineral 
goes. ’ ’ 

“Very well; take the trap to her, wherever 
she may be, and tell her to drive a mile or two 
on the sands, to see how she likes it ; and if it 
don’t suit she can send it back by Sam; and be 
sure and tell her why I couldn’t wait to see her. 
Here’s a quarter for you.” 

“It seems like she was coinin’ to her own 
agin, — thank’ ee, mars’ r,” said Jupe, looking with 
delight at the new silver coin that shone so 
brightly in his dusky palm. While he was in- 
specting it, Father Jannison walked rapidly away 


46 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


homeward, and the old negro, with a low 
chuckle, dropped the piece into an eelskin purse 
containing many others, which, having carefully 
tied up, was again consigned to the depths of 
his pocket. Then he turned himself about and 
began to examine with curious scrutiny the 
strange piece of splendor that had suddenly 
dropped, as it were, from the clouds, before him ; 
he shook up the bright red morocco cushions; 
he peeped into every hole and corner of it; he 
touched the silver-mounted wheel-hubs, fingered 
the plated ornaments on the harness, looked long 
into the great gentle eyes of the horse, smooth- 
ing down its nose with Jight touches of his 
shaky hands, liis old wrinkled face all the while 
illumined with delight — for Jupe, like all 
others of his class, had a vast amount of family 
pride, and the, fallen fortunes of the Ramseys 
had been a sore point with him for many years, 
— for had not their forefathers and his held the 
relation of master and slave to each other for 
nearly two centuries? But now he fancied that 
he saw a sign that the fortunes of the “ fam’ly ” 
were looking up, and that consequently the Mil- 
lennium must be hear at hand. 

Zoe, with her daughter, drove over the next 
day to see and thank Father Jannison for the 
trouble he had taken, and to tell him how per- 
fectly well the whole affair suited her. 

“Now we shall have it!” thought the good 
priest, inwardly quaking. 

But, to his great relief, Zod asked no questions 
— for she felt no interest in it beyond that of 
possession; the purchase suited her needs and 
harmonized with her taste, and so little was she 
acquainted with the moneyed value of such 


47 


zof S DAUGHTER. 

things that a much higher or a much lower 
price than the one she paid would not have 
elicited a remark; she would simply have handed 
over the money and been done with it. When 
Father Jannison sent the money to Allan Brooke 
it was returned the next day, with a few lines 
from him requesting that it be distributed 
amongst the needy during the coming winter. 
Father Jannison thanked God for such help for 
his poor, but thought “the ways of the human 
heart as full of mystery as Alpha. ’ ’ 

Zoe and her daughter were present at Mass 
after this on every Sunday and holyday, if the 
weather was not stormy or threatening; and once 
a month they approached the Sacraments to- 
gether; but after Mass and sermon, when the 
good people from around the neighborhood con- 
gregated in front of the old church, as was their 
friendly custom, to exchange greetings with each 
other, quake kindly inquiries, and chat over the 
news and prospects of the country, many of them 
who had known Zoe in her childhood and after 
she was grown to a beautiful womanhood, over- 
flowing with old-fashioned Maryland friendliness, 
would have been glad to shake hands with her 
and welcome her back to her old home — but 
with her crape veil lowered in heavy folds over 
her face, and holding Fucia by the hand, she 
avoided all such recognition by passing out of 
the church through the sacristy, looking neither 
to the right or left as she went towards her phae- 
ton, and drove off as swiftly as possible. This 
avoidance was quickly noticed, and understood 
by the good people, who were so ready to be 
kind and friendly to her — and with instinctive 
delicacy, and somewhat offended, too, they re- 
frained from any further advances. 


48 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


Allen Brooke never came to St. Inigoes now. 
Father Jannison learned that he had gone North, 
where he expected to remain until Congress met 
in December, when his duties as Senator from 
Virginia would detain him through the winter 
and spring in Washington. 

There was one spot at “Buckrae” which Zoe 
had not yet visited: although her heart yearned 
towards it with a deep longing, her courage 
failed her whenever she attempted it. This was 
her father’s grave. The great beeches that had 
shaded the old family burial-place of the Ram- 
sey’s for a century or more were now rich in 
their autumnal tints, and the tall cedars growing 
thickly amongst them looked as luxuriant and 
verdant as when she first remembered them. 
She could distinguish the favorite trees into 
whose smooth bark she had cut her name years 
Ipefore, and it comforted her to know that none 
were missing. The very thought of going there 
— of being so near all that was mortal of the one 
she had most loved on earth — of hearing no re- 
sponse when she called him out of the deeps of 
hor heart — of the blank silence that would meet 
her instead of a loving embrace and welcome — 
always brought on that strange smothered feel- 
ing in her heart which obliged her to sit down 
and press her hand tightly over it. She dreaded 
to see the dilapidation and overgrown tangle of 
weeds and grass to be expected from a long period 
of neglect; but when at length she felt that she 
could delay going there no longer, and in a fit 
of desperate resolve walked to the bluff one 
lovely morning of the Indian summer, what was 
her surprise to find the burial-place inclosed by 
a graceful iron railing, the tombstones erect, the 


zoe’s daughter. 


49 


graves in order, and vines and flowers planted 
and trained above the resting-places of her dead! 
Who could have done this labor of love? what 
friendly hand had guarded and cared for the spot 
so sacred to her? She could not tell, but it fell 
like balm upon h^r heart and gave pulse to the 
sweetest emotion she had felt for years, and 
kneeling beside her father’s grave she shed co- 
pious tears, which cooled her brain and composed 
her overtaxed nerves. 

“May the choicest gifts of the Almighty God 
be yours, whoever you may be,” she whispered; 
“if the ardent prayers of a desolate heart will 
avail, the blessings and tender mercies of heaven 
shall ever encompass you.” Then she offered a 
decade of the Rosary in devout earnestness for 
her unknown benefactor; and after praying for 
the eternal repose of those who slept in hope, 
she returned home more calm and tranquil than 
she had been for years, and from that day ap- 
peared more cheerful. 

Winter now set in with cold easterly winds 
and storms of mingled sleet and snow, and the 
weather was more severe than any that had been 
experienced for more than fifty years. The 
river was ice-bound, so that wagons could cross 
from shore to shore, and the roads were in such 
a condition that sometimes all communication 
between St. Inigoes and “Buckrae” was en- 
tirely cut off. 

Zoe and her child, accustomed to perpetual 
summer in their tropical home, both drooped 
and sickened under the effects of the severe and 
gloomy season. The constant booming of the 
tern pest- tossed waters of the bay, the pitiless 
howling of the winds, the pelting of rain and 
4 


50 ZOSfS DAUGHTER. 

sleet against the window-panes, the blinding 
white storms of snow that filled the air and 
piled great drifts over the fields without, the 
creaking of loose boards, the rattling of dilapi- 
dated windows, the whispering and whistling of 
the unresting wind through the deserted rooms 
and down the old chimney-stacks within, were 
but sorry helps to their dejected hearts, espec- 
ially the child’s, who had never known what 
winter was before, and shrank from it with a 
sort of sullen affright. 

Zoe occupied her mornings in teaching Lucia 
— but the child, like a caged young panther, 
made nearly desperate by the restraints and 
gloom surrounding her, sometimes flew off into 
such fits of rage, shrieking and running wildly 
here and there, up and down, pouring out per- 
fect tirades in Creole Spanish, refusing with vio- 
lence all attempts made to comfort or restrain 
her, that her mother could do nothing with her, 
and was obliged simply to let her alone until 
her passion exhausted itself; then, silent and 
gloomy, she would perch herself up on one of 
the deep window sills, and, with her face pressed 
against the glass, watch with glowering, hungry 
eyes the dark waters of the bay rolling landward, 
crested with fringes of white, and bursting with 
a deep roar upon the shingly beach, while their 
mighty reverberations beating in strong tides 
against the window-panes made them shiver 
with a rhythm that tingled through every nerve 
of her sensitive being, and stirred into life a pas- 
sionate longing for the grand and terrible in 
nature. At such moments the child felt that the 
winds and waves were calling her, and an almost 
irresistible impulse possessed her to fly from her 


zoe’s daughter. 51 

dull prison and cool her fiery- soul in their em- 
braces. Undisciplined in myid and imagination, 
her nature undeveloped and untrained, it is not 
to be wondered at that this nursling of the 
tropics, who had always lived amidst the blooms 
and softness of perpetual summers, should, all 
unused to the gloom and severity of such a 
winter, without cheerful companionship or the 
beautiful surroundings to which she had ever 
been accustomed, become a prey to the most 
morbid emotions and be unable to recognize or 
define their origin, which was the living germ 
of a poetic genius, the stirring of a deeper power 
which would some day sing high and inspired 
strains, while passing through the ordeal of fire 
to come forth from the crucible refined gold. 

One day, when the weather was more than 
usually stormy and lowering, when the black 
swirling clouds and the tempestuous waves 
seemed to meet each other in furious conflict, 
and the winds made angry onslaught upon the 
old house, piercing every crevice and shaking it 
to its foundations, Lucia suddenly uttered a 
sharp cry, and tdssing away her books, ran or 
rather flew swiftly from the room; two or three 
steps at a time she sprang down the staircase, 
and stood panting and tugging at the massive 
knob of the hall door, trying to get out, when 
just as she succeeded in opening it a strong 
hand seized and held her back. 

“Where in the world be you a goin’, child?” 

“I’m going to drown myself. I hate this 
place; I hate you ! Let me go ! let me go ! ” she 
screamed. 

“No, I won’t. I’d like to give you a raal 
good switching you little catamount!” ex- 


52 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


claimed Mrs. Meggs-, shaking her. “ You’ll kill 
your mother ! Ainf you ’shamed of yourself 
now? ” 

Then she hauled the struggling child up to 
her mother’s room, which she entered without 
ceremony, saying: “Look yere, Missis Deliv- 
eriis, you ought to tie this gal to the bed-post. 
I jest cotch her in time to keep her from runnin’ 
out to drown d herself. I never did see the like 
of her in my born days ! ’ ’ 

Poor Zoe looked up with a frightened, help- 
less look in her eyes; then folding her hands 
tightly over her heart, fell back, white and 
motionless. 

“Now then you’ve gone and done it ! You’ve 
killed your poor mammy, you bad, dretful child !” 
cried Mrs. Meggs, lifting Zoe in her arms from 
her chair to the lounge, where she laid her down 
and placed a pillow under her head; but she 
showed no signs of life, and looked so rigid and 
white that it seemed impossible that life could 
ever return to her unconscious faculties. Mrs. 
Meggs was sure she was dead, although she hur- 
ried off to get “burnt feathers” and “camphire” 
and every other remedy she could think of, — the 
best of them all being holy water and a relic of 
St. Francis Xavier, — all of which she applied in 
turn with her accustomed vigor, only pausing at 
intervals to tell the frightened child that she had 
“ killed her poor mammy.” Lucia, crouched at 
her mother’s feet, was sobbing bitterly ; her poor 
little undisciplined heart cried out piteously for 
help to Mater Dolorosa , and felt for the first time 
the regenerating influence of sorrow mingled 
with repentance; it was a moral crisis in her 
being, which exercised a controlling power over 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 53 

her as long as she lived. Zoe gradually revived, 
and, seeing Lucia near her, smiled faintly; and 
the child, creeping timidly to her side, took up 
her hand, and leaning her wet face upon it, whis- 
pered in Spanish: “Forgive me, mamma; I’ll 
try to be good.” 

“My poor little girl, how -I pity you !” said 
Zoe faintly, as she folded her arms around the 
sorrowing child. “Let us love each other, dar- 
ling; we are all alone.” 

“I’ll never, never grieve you again, mamma, 
— that is, I’ll try very hard not to, and will ask 
the Blessed Lady to help me. Do you think 
she will? ” she sobbed. 

“I know she will, my darling.” 

“I will ask her every day,” she answered 
simply. 

Mrs. Meggs left them together, to get a cup of 
tea for Zoe and tell Sam all that had happened. 

“She’s a reg’lar little paynter ! ” * said Sam, 
his eyes starting immediately on the rampage. 

1 ‘And what did Miss Zoe do when she coined to ? ” 

“Hugged and kissed the ugly little critter. I 
was in hopes she’d give her somethin’ to remem- 
ber, but if you b’lieve me she jest hugged and 
kissed her, then secli a jaw as they had in that 
gibberish of their’ n that always makes my flesh 
creep, you never heard. ’ ’ 

“Laws!” ejaculated Sam, lighting his pipe 
to have a smoke over it, “it’d be a sight easier 
to talk English, seems to me.” But Mrs. Meggs 
did not hear this profound observation; she had 
gone, while he was making up his mind what to 
say, with a cup of hot tea and a slice of crisp 
toast to the poor invalid. 


* Panther. 


54 


ZCX&’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER V. 

ALDAN BROOKE AND ZOE MEET ONCE MORE. 

But any severe punishment then would have 
been to Lucia literally the breaking of a “bruised 
reed.” Her conscience was awakened by her 
alarm about her mother, and all the best in- 
stincts of her nature were touched, and roused 
into life. For the child had, underlying her 
passionate temper and uncouth ways, fine natural 
principles. She was truthful and honorable. 
It never occurred to her to equivocate — she had 
one of those natures to which a lie had ever 
been, and would always remain, incomprehensi- 
ble and unnecessary; and her slightest promise 
was as much to be trusted as an oath. She was 
passionate, self-willed, and withal possessed of 
such an intense love of the beautiful that gloom 
and silence irritated and almost maddened her. 
Child of the glowing tropics, surrounded all her 
life by costly and rich belongings, breathing an 
air full of perpetual fragrance, and feasting her 
eyes day and night on the m(*st exquisite pro- 
ductions of nature, is it strange that under the 
new and adverse circumstances in which she was 
now placed — living on through the dreamy 
monotony of a bitter, cheerless winter, full of 
white tempests and dismal sounds — inhabiting a 
ruinous, gloomy old house — without ever a sound 
of music, of which she was passionately fond — 
with no brightness of any sort, or companion- 


I 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


55 


ship suitable to her age — she should at times 
lose all control over her ill regulated and undis- 
ciplined mind? Lucia was not a comely or 
pleasant child to look at; she was awkward in 
her movements and gestures, her face was so 
spare and thin that her eyes looked preternatur- 
ally large; and her nose, decidedly aquiline in 
form, had the appearance of a beak. Sam 
Meggs used to tell his wife, under his breath and 
in a strictly confidential way, that “she had to 
him the look of a young yaller owl;” and Mrs. 
Meggs, who could not bear her, declared her 
firm belief that “old Mr. Deliverus was one of 
them Congos that she often heard her father tell, 
when she was a gal, used to be fotcli from over 
the seas to the West Ingies; and to think of Zoe 
Ramsey giving up of Allan Brooke to marry sich 
was more’n she could ever tell.” 

But the longest and gloomiest winters, obey- 
ing the order of nature, come to an end; and so 
with this — which was remembered and spoken 
of for many years afterwards as the severest one 
ever experienced in our usually mild climate; 
the snow-drifts melted, and April suns shone 
warmly and brightly over wood and wave; the 
blood of the maples crimsoned their stems until 
they looked against the blue sky like branches 
of coral— then delicate crimson buds burst in 
feathery blooms upon them; tufts of green 
showed on the dogwood trees, and here and 
there, in sunny, sheltered spots, their broad- 
leaved white flowers bravely unfolded themselves 
to the light; and the spicy sassafras, almost 
bursting with new life, already flung abroad a 
delicious fragrance. Partridge-berries crin^oned 
the dark rich mosses, and the trailing arbutus 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


56 

opened its exquisitely tinted petals under the 
fallen leaves. Blue and bright shone the waters 
of bay and river, and one day Jupe announced 
that “thar was a school of porpusses tumblin’ 
about in de surf, sure sign dat winter’s done 
gone for good.” The birds were busy, and 
Lucia’s delight in watching them, as they flitted 
here and there, up and down, in and out of the 
green coverts of the woods, listening entranced 
to their strange notes and sweet wild warblings, 
never wearied: the yellow oriole, the red bird 
like a crimson flame, the blue bird, the scarlet- 
tufted wood-pecker, fluttering and darting 
through the sunshine like winged jewels, filled 
her heart with glee, and she cared for nothing 
so long as she could see and hear them. 

The roads being now good, Zoe and her child 
renewed their drives, and “Buckrae” and St. 
Inigoes exchanged visits once more. But Zod, 
never very strong, felt that she was failing; she 
could not tell how or why exactly, because there 
were no decided or prominent symptoms of suf- 
fering — there was simply a decadence of vitality 
and more frequent attacks of faintness; and one 
day she spoke to Father Jannison, describing her 
sensations — which, she told him, “made her a 
little uneasy about herself.” He tried to cheer 
her up by a little badinage; then seeing traces in 
her wasted features which he had not before 
observed, he said, laying his kind hand upon 
her shoulder, “What is it, Zoe, my child?” 

“It is here, I think,” she replied, pressing her 
hand upon her heart. 

“We must see to it. You must have medical 
advice, my child. But the trouble may not be 
there after all; however, for the sake of Lucia, 
you must take care of yourself, you know. 1 ’ 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


57 


* 1 Yes — I know, ’ ’ she said listlessly. “Ido not 
object to seeing the doctor, if you think I should 
do so. Will you be good enough, Father, to send 
him to ‘Buckrae’ to-morrow? It may be that 
I am only nervous, but it is terrible, — I mean 
those attacks, and they frighten me so. I should 
be glad to be relieved.” 

The doctor saw her the next day, gave her a 
remedy which he promised would relieve her, and 
assured her that she would get quite well as soon 
as the weather settled, prescribed living much in 
the open air, and daily drives through the pine 
forest to inhale the resinous perfume, which he 
considered health-giving; then he went straight 
back to St. Inigoes, and told Father Jannison 
that Madame D’Olivieras had heart disease and 
might die at any moment. This was sorrowful 
tidings to the good priest, but after the first 
shock he remembered how often within his re- 
collection he had known doctors to be widely 
mistaken in their prognostics, and determined to 
take comfort therefrom. He knew something 
of the science of medicine himself. In the Mis- 
sionary Orders of the Church it wisely enters 
into the course of studies of those who are pre- 
paring for the priesthood to make themselves 
acquainted with the healing art, so that in poor 
and distant missions they may be able to minister 
to the body as well as the soul of suffering 
humanity. He knew all the fantastic ways of the 
heart when affected by functional disturbances, 
he know what torture the imperfect action of 
muscle and nerve could produce there without 
organic disease, and how distressing the sensa- 
tions caused by a feeble and imperfect circulation. 
“It may be any or all of these,” he argued; 


5'S 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


“the doctor must be mistaken; his whole time 
is taken up with malarial diseases, and he has 
lost sight of all others. Pshaw ! I expect he’ll be 
telling me next that this rheumatic pain in my 
head is brain disease, and begin to threaten me 
with apoplexy. But I’ll go to see the poor child 
this very evening. ’ ’ 

Father Jannison rode down to “Buckrae” 
about dusk, expecting to find Zoe sick and de- 
jected; but as he went up stairs he heard the 
sounds of music and laughter, and when he 
opened the door, the room was ablaze with light 
from the ruddy flames of the resinous knots of 
pine burning fiercely on the hearth, while Zoe, 
singing the air of a bolero, playing at the same 
time on Jupe’s banjo, borrowed for the occasion, 
was teaching Lucia the intricate figures of a 
Spanish national dance. Zoe danced also; her 
eyes flashed with their old radiance, her cheeks 
were brightly tinted with crimson, and her lips 
were parted in smiles as rare as they were beau- 
tiful. 

“ Bless my soul ! That’s right ! that’s right ! 
Go on, my child. Bravo, Lucia !” exclaimed 
Father Jannison, delighted at the unexpected 
scene. “No, no! don’t stop; if you do I’ll go 
stright back to St. Inigoes.” And the dance, 
much to Lucia’s delight, continued, while Father 
Jannison muttered: “I wouldn’t give a pinch of 
snuff for the opinion of doctors nowadays. Heart 
disease, indeed ! ” 

“Now, Lucia darling,” said Zoe, laying the 
banjo down, “ run down and ask Mammy Meggs 
to let us have our tea while Father Jannison is 
here.” Lucia ran out, only stopping to kiss 
Father Jannison’s hand, and as soon as she closed 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


59 


tlie door after her Zoe sank down exhausted, 
white and trembling, upon the lounge, her hand 
pressed upon her heart as she leaned back against 
the pillows, a film of darkness over her eyes. 

“Zoe, my child” — said Father Jannison in 
alarm. 

“It is not much,” she faintly whispered ; “it 
is even now passing off. Don’t think me grown 
frivolous, dear Father; I was only trying to make 
her happy; the poor child is so lonesome ! ” 

“That was right, my child. At her age, com- 
panionship and innocent gayety are necessary. 
The undeveloped nature and imagination of a 
child of Lucia’s age need food and training ; and 
if they don’t get the right sort of pabulum, bad- 
ness is sure to crop out. Do you feel better 
now ? ’ ’ 

“Thanks! yes. How very strange these at- 
tacks are ! They come with an indescribable 
sensation of smothering ^about my heart, then I 
grow blind and begin to float; it is not painful, 
but it alarms me while it lasts.” 

“Nerves, my child!” said Father Jannison, 
waving his hand with a dogmatic gesture. “Did 
you ever think how a single nerve in one tooth 
can unman the strongest by the torture it inflicts? 
How must it be, then, when the whole nervous 
system is diseased and unstrung? Cheer up, Zoe, 
my child ; the air and sunshine will bring all 
right in a month or two.” 

Father Jannison often afterwards thought of 
that pleasant evening in the quaint old room at 
“Buckrae,” a red magical splendor lighting up 
every cranny and crevice, and gilding even the 
spider webs that were spun from poinfi to point 
of the rich carving of the cornice that edged the 


6o 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


ceiling; with Zoe and her child in the midst of 
the radiance, dancing in gleeful time to the 
rhythm of the rude music. And we shall see 
presently why he remembered it to his dying 
day with a softened, tender feeling which was 
both sad and pleasant. 

The next day there was a fall of snow, such as 
we sometimes have in the spring — the last beau- 
tiful benediction of winter, which scarcely chills 
the opening hyacinths and tender foliage it 
touches, and through which the birds flit twit- 
tering and defiantly whistling as they brush the 
downy flakes aside with their wings. It fell now 
so thick and fast, in such great broad. flakes, that 
one might have thought the world was about 
being buried under it, but it melted as soon as it 
fell; the warm pulses of the earth, throbbing full 
of life, were too much for it now, and except 
when a little lodged here and there on the bushes, 
like cotton-bolls, it had no chance of existence 
unless it could have remained floating in the air. 
Zoe put on her thick shoes and wrappings for a 
walk. She recollected how — long ago — she 
never missed a run when the snow came down 
like this — tfye beautiful, evanescent, softly silent 
spring snow ! it brought back thoughts of 
happier days, the thought of her father, who was 
her idol — and almost involuntarily she turned 
her steps towards his grave. As she drew near, 
she fancied once or twice that she heard the 
sound of horses’ hoofs on the spongy ground, 
and almost ran to get out of sight of any passing 
stranger. It was growing towards dusk when 
she reached the burial-place; she unlatched the 
gate and went swiftly in, and as she stooped to 
lay a garland of evergreens that she had woven 


ZOK’S DAUGHTER. 


6l 


upon her father’s grave, the spasm seized her 
heart and she fell lifeless upon it, where she lay 
as silent and motionless as the dead form be- 
neath. 

Nearer and nearer came the sound of hoofs, 
approaching slowly over the stubbly, soft soil 
towards the spot — and soon, emerging from the 
dark belt of woods separating the fields from the 
burial-place, a man mounted on a large black 
horse, and wrapped in a voluminous cloak, rode 
up, and dismounting, entered the enclosure, 
where the first thing he saw was the prostrate 
form of Zoe, her white face partially upturned 
to the waning light. He knew at once who it 
was, and his heart gave a great throb of pain as 
he leaned over her and touched her cold, lifeless 
hand. 

“Merciful God!” he exclaimed, “she is 
dead ! ’ ’ 

Then lifting her in his strong a,rms and wrap- 
ping his cloak about her, he almost ran towards 
“Buckrae” with his unconscious burden. It 
was Allan Brooke, and this was the first time he 
had seen Zoe since they parted on the eve of her 
marriage, twenty years before. 

When Mrs. Meggs, by the bright light of her 
kitchen fire, saw him enter, and saw the white 
lifeless face of Zoe against his breast, she dropped 
the hot smoothing-iron she had just taken up, 
staggered backwards, then shrieked. 

“ Be quiet, Mrs. Meggs, and show me the way 
to this lady’s room,” he said, authoritatively. 

“Blessed St. Joseph ! is she dead?” asked the 
woman, shivering with a nervous chill. 

“I cannot tell; I fear that she is,” replied 
Allan Brooke, following Mrs. Meggs. 


62 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


He laid her tenderly down upon the lounge, 
adjusting her pillows and throwing a shawl over 
her; then giving Mrs. Meggs some directions, he 
ran down stairs, and without a moment’s loss of 
time hastened back to the burial-place, mounted 
his horse and galloped off to St. Inigoes to bring 
the doctor and Father Jannison to “Buckrae.” 
He rode back with them; he must know the 
worst — he could not rest until he heard how it 
was with her. 

Zoe was not dead, but dying. She recovered 
consciousness and speech ; she received with deep 
fervor all the divine consolations of her faith, 
and lay awaiting the supreme moment when 
humanity would be merged into immortality, 
her life ebbing silently and almost painlessly 
away. Lucia lay asleep on the bed, where she 
had thrown herself to rest, when coming home 
from one of her fishing excursions with Jupe — 
the first of the season — she found her mother 
absent. And she had so much to tell her: the 
snow-storm had caught them a mile from shore, 
but she didn’t mind it, it fell so softly that she 
fancied lace draperies were dropping from the 
clouds around them; then, the first thing, Jupe 
hauled up a great shad, which they considered 
fine luck, for the shad had not come into the 
river quite yet; and altogether Lucia had had an 
exciting and jolly time. But there was no one 
to hear about it, and lying down she fell asleep. 
Zoe turned her head and lay watching her — for 
Lucia’s face lay near the edge of the bed — with 
that wistful, sorrowful look only seen on the 
faces of the dying. 

“Zoe, my child, is there anything I can do 
for you?” asked Father Jannison, who sat near 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 63 

her, holding* her cold hand in his great warm 
palm. 

“How did I get here, Father?” she whis- 
pered. “It seems to me that I was at my 
father’s grave, when — when — it all grew dark 
about me. ’ ’ 

“Yes, my child, you were there; and an old 
friend, Allan Brooke, happened to be passing at 
the moment and saw you. He brought you 
home. ’ ’ 

“Allan Brooke!” she said faintly, while a 
gleam of something like joy flashed for a mo- 
ment in her eyes. “I recollect now that I 
heard the sound of horses’ feet coming. Father, 
take a message from me to Allan Brooke. Ask 
him to forgive me; I did him a great wrong, but 
tell him I have expiated it by sufferings which, 
if he did but know them, would make it easy 
for him to forgive me.” 

“He is here, my child,” said Father Jannison, 
with great pity in his eyes and voice. 

“Here ! in this house ! ” she said, with a star- 
tled look. 

“Yes, my dear child; he brought the doctor 
and myself to your assistance, and is waiting — ” 

After a little while, during which Zoe lay 
with her eyes closed as if struggling with some 
thought that gave her pain, she said in low, firm 
tones : “I wish to see him ; do you think he will 
come?” 

“Surely, Zoe, my dear; I will bring him to 
you. ” 

Father JannisOn soon returned with him, both 
stepping softly, and when Allen Brooke ap- 
proached her he knelt beside her, his face 
scarcely less white than her o\\*n, and folding 


64 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 

her cold motionless hand in his own, he burst 
into tears. 

“Forgive me, Allan,” she whispered; “false 
to you in act, but never in heart or thought. 
Forgive me.” 

“I do, Zoe, with all my heart; is there any- 
thing that I can do to prove it?” he answered 
with deep emotion. 

“Yes!” she replied eagerly and in faltering 
tones; “my child! — friendless — orphaned — ” 

“Feel no more anxiety about her, Zoe, for I 
declare before heaven and in the presence of 
Father Jannison and these holy images of our 
Lord and His Blessed Mother, that for your dear 
sake I will be a father and friend to her.” 

‘ ‘ Thanks ! thanks ! ’ ’ she murmured. ‘ 1 There 
is a sealed paper, my Father — open — Give me 
the last absolution — Jesus and Mary!” — A 
soft, restful smile shone on the pallid counte- 
nance, then came the gray shadow; and the in- 
exorable rigidity of death settled upon her still 
beautiful features, making them look like some 
classic image, chiselled in unstained marble. A 
few minutes longer, breathing softly — then she 
passed away so silently that no one present knew 
the precise moment that separated life from 
death. 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


65 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE SEALED PACKAGE. 

And when all was over, when the sod was 
pressed upon Zoe’s grave, and the wild violets, 
whose beautiful life had been almost crushed 
out by the rude upheaval of the earth in which 
they grew, once more shook out their blue petals 
to the sunshine among the grass above her, 
u Buckrae” was closed, and Allan Brooke took 
the desolate child away with him to his home at 
“Haylands,” on the other side of the river; his 
great constant heart full of the most earnest in- 
tentions for her welfare and happiness. 

Mrs. Meggs was sick from the sudden shock 
of the sad event: life, which had been compara- 
tively easy to her since the “Mistress’’ came 
back, was thrown off the smooth groove on 
which it had been running, out upon the rough 
stony places once more; it had been cheerful 
and satisfactory to the woman’s soul to have 
some one inhabiting the old house, and that one 
a “Ramsey, as had the best right to be there;” 
she had never had better sales for her eggs and 
poultry, and the saving to her in what Zoe and 
her child always left from their meals was so 
great that she rarely cooked anything for Sam 
and herself, which enabled her to sell more “mid- 
dling and sassige meat” than ever before; in fact 
she felt that prosperous times had at last dawned 
upon her dreary life: but it was all over now — 
5 


66 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


things would go hard with her again, and she’d 
have to slave herself to death to pay that “fifty 
dollar a year rent,” just as she had begun to en- 
joy the thought of saving it. Her only solace 
was a secret satisfaction she felt in getting rid of 
Lucia, towards whom she had an unconquerable 
aversion; that part of the affair she regarded as 
a direct intervention of Providence in her regard; 
not so, however, with Sam, who missed the 
child, and was so heart-struck by the sudden 
taking off of the one being who had thrown a 
little cheer around his dreary life, that he wan- 
dered about in the most purposeless manner, 
dazed out of all reason, of no use to himself or 
anybody else, doing everything that he set his 
poor shaking hands to — to use Mrs. Meggs’ ex- 
pression — “hind eend foremost;” his eyes so 
widely stretched and scared-looking all the 
while, that he was a sight to behold. 

It was a pitiable sight to note the deep grief 
apparent in the old negro, Jupe: he said but 
little, but with “Bruce,” the old hound, 
crouched beside him, would sit with his face 
leaning in his hands for hours together, his 
fishing nets lying in a tangled, neglected heap, 
his lines, oyster tongs, bait boxes and punts 
thrown here and there in strange disorder about 
his hut, while he wept, and talked, and prayed, 
giving vent to his passionate grief after the 
emotional fashion of his race. Above all things 
he missed the child, who had taken one of her 
strange fancies to him, and used to go with him, 
whenever the weather was fine, for an hour or 
two daily, out on the river or bay, where he 
taught her how to bait a hook and haul in a line 
with a dexterity as great as his own, and where 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 67 

she used to listen entranced to the family 
legends, the ghost stories, and half-forgotten 
traditions of his race he used to relate, while the 
periogue floated along in the shadows of the 
shore, and there was no better game than crabs 
to be caught; “stupid on’ ary creeters,” Jupe 
used to say, “as hadn’t sense, like fish, to keep 
outen harm’s reach, when they heered folks 
talkin’.” But one day the old man roused him- 
self, and taking Bruce along, got into his canoe 
and paddled over to “Haylands,” where he met 
Allan Brooke at the landing, and told him, 
standing humbly before the master, turning his 
battered hat around in his hands, that he 
“coined over to ax if he might be ’lowed to see 
the little Missis sometimes; he was mighty fond 
of her, and somehow he felt like Miss Zoe would 
like for him to look arter her darter now and 
then.” 

“Come whenever you have leisure, Uncle 
Jupe,” said the master, touched by his fidelity. 
“The little lady is up yonder under the trees; 
go and have a talk with her. Perhaps it will do 
her good to see such faithful old friends as Bruce 
and yourself. And whenever you have a good 
catch, leave the best of the fish hereafter at 
‘Haylands.’ You’ll find her somewhere about 
in the verandah, or under the trees; and if you 
don’t see her, go ask Chloe: she can tell you 
where she is.” Jupe felt as if a heavy load had 
been lifted from his heart, and scraping and 
bowing in a grotesque old-fashioned way, he 
thanked Mr. Brooke, and with beaming counte- 
nance started in search of the child, his hand on 
the old hound’s head, and walking slowly so as 
not to leave him behind — for, almost gone, his 


68 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


steps were feeble and lagging, and his breath 
quick and easily spent. But Lucia could not be 
found; she had strayed off to some solitary nook 
in the woods, or to some quiet darkened corner 
of the big house, “where,” Chloe told Jupe in 
confidence, “it would be safest to let her be, for 
she’s in that state it don’t do, as I tells Mass’ r 
Allan, to meddle with her; it’s her nature to do 
so, jest like the wild varmints when they gets 
wounded; they runs off and hides ’way down in 
the close undergrowth of the woods where they 
stays lickin’ their hurts ’till they gets well or” — 

“Dies,” added Jupe, nodding his head. “I 
knows deir ways, but don’t — don’t let her die. 
Lord, don’t let me see the last of my old Mass’ r’s 
blood perish off’n the yearth afore I go. She, 
an’ the old hound here, and me, we’s the last leff 
of ’em all. Its natur for the old leaf to drap, but 
it aint natur for the young green saplin’ to die. 
Take keer of her, and give my love and sarvice 
to her, and tell her I’m cornin’ again to fotch 
her out fish in’ — me and Bruce here, lie’s took to 
fishin’ in his old days; be sure and tell her that, 
maybe she’ll larf at it.” “ 

“I’ll tell her, Uncle Jupe,” answered Chloe, 
kindly; “and I tell you, with God’s help, I’m 
gwine to take good keer of the child, for my boy 
— Mass’ r Allan, your know, that I nussed at my 
own breast ’cause his own mother was weakly 
and onable to nuss him. Mass’r Allan he told 
me somethin’ that’s give me a great intrust in 
the little gal, and I means to do by her as if she 
was his’ n.” 

“I’se mighty glad I coined over, Aunt Chloe: 
it sort o’ cheers me an’ Bruce up to hear of the 
good friend little Missis got by her. I’ll be here 


i 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 69 

agin day arter to-morrow, and I’ll fotch you a 
string of fresh herring; they’s as fat as po’pusses, 
they is;” said Jupe, wiping his bald head, and 
chuckling. 

“I’ll be glad ’nough to get ’em, Uncle Jupe, 
for if you b’lieve my racket, the niggers here at 
‘Haylands’ is so lazy I don’t b’lieve they’d 
pick the fish out of the river if they’d come float- 
in! up ready cooked, and ask ’em. Nothin’ but 
chickens and rabbits, and roast pig and sliote, ’s 
good enough for ’em. Mass’ r Allan lets ’em 
raise their own things, and I ’clare they lives a 
sight better’11 he does; its the truth, and they’se 
that fat and lazy that I told Mass’ r^ only ’tother 
day, that it was a disgrace to the fam’ly — and 
what do he do but larf at me? Here, light your 
pipe before you go, and try some of my tobacco, 
— Mass’ r Allan he brung it from some of them 
furrin places up Norf lie’s been to.” 

Nothing loth, Jupe filled his pipe with the 
black fragrant weed, lighted it from Chloe’s hos- 
pitable hearth, and trudged away, solaced and 
comforted. 

Allan Brooke’s home was spacious and elegant 
in all its appointments; rich furniture, rare pic- 
tures and statuary collected abroad in his years 
of wandering, curios and relics from every known 
historic or celebrated place, musical instruments 
of marvellous sweetness of tone, hangings of 
glowing silk, draperies of film-like laces, en- 
riched the lofty apartments in bewildering con- 
fusion; while his library, his own sanctum sanc- 
torum , into which no one ever ventured without 
invitation, was filled with the most rare and 
costly treasures of literature, the spoils of many 
lands, some of them brought from the moulder- 


70 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


ing collections of impoverished convents in Syria 
and Spain, some purchased at almost fabulous 
prices from the beggared princes of Italy and 
Germany, and all that was worth reading of the 
comparatively modern literature of Europe, se- 
lected by his own fine, cultivated taste. But 
one picture decorated the walls, and over this a 
silk curtain was ever drawn, which no one had 
yet seen removed, or could even imagine what it 
covered; for when he was not at “Haylands” 
the picture by some mechanical arrangement was 
sunk back into the wall, and a panel slid over it 
which fastened with a spring, of which he alone 
had the key. 

Flowers, shrubbery, a lovely sloping lawn, 
and clumps of magnificent trees, with vistas like 
Claude Lorraine pictures opening between them, 
made a sort of earthly paradise of u Haylands,” 
which a short time ago, before the death of her 
mother, would have charmed Lucia’s aesthetic 
nature to the highest degree; but she had been 
as one dead and frozen ever since the morning 
she awoke from bright dreams of her tropical 
home, and instead of the warm, loving embrace 
with which her mother always greeted her 
awakening, she found her pillow empty, and 
saw the white speechless form, beautiful in the 
everlasting peace of death — reposing as if asleep, 
only it was so terribly still — on the lounge where 
she had died. She sprang up and laid her hand 
upon the marble hands clasped together, as if 
her very body said “Amen” to the rest that had 
come; but shrinking back with one piercing cry, 
she crouched in nameless terror down beside all 
that was left of the only being she had ever 
loved. A desolation and numbness fell upon 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


71 


the child too great for words or tears, and but 
for her big burning eyes she would seem as 
dead in her cold, silent apathy as the fair image 
she watched over, and could not be persuaded to 
leave for an instant. If she could only have 
relieved her heart by out-cries and tears — if she 
could only in wild passionate words have ex- 
pressed her woe, and moaned out the desolation 
that the sudden blow left, darkening and be- 
numbing her life, it would have been better for 
her; but stricken and frozen, there seemed no 
help for her, for the world was filled with but 
one thought for the child — her dead mother, who 
was to be taken away and hidden from her sight 
forever. She neither ate nor slept the two days 
and nights that followed, and when she saw 
them raise the pale slender form, and lay it in 
the coffin, knowing that the time of eternal sep- 
aration had come, she fell in a deep swoon at the 
feet of the man who was lifting up the coffin -lid. 
to adjust and screw it on, veiling for all time the 
tender white face within. She had sprung to- 
wards him when she saw his purpose, to prevent 
him; she felt a passionate desire to struggle with 
him — to kill him, if need be, for the possession 
of her mother’s body; but nature was exhausted, 
and a happy insensibility spared her all that fol- 
lowed: the lowering of the coffin into the “home 
prepared for all the living;” the giving of “ashes 
unto ashes, and dust unto dust;” the heavy 
rumbling fall of the clods upon the dreamless 
sleeper; the inexorable, unavoidable hiding and 
covering up forever of the loved and sacred 
remains. 

The funeral over, Father Jannison looked over 
Zoe’s papers, and finding the sealed package she 


72 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


liad referred to a short time before she breathed 
her last, he proceeded in Allan Brooke’s pres- 
ence to open it. As he broke the seal, Mrs. 
Meggs opened the door and thrust in her head to 
say that “the drops the doctor had given Lucia 
had took effect, and she was .sound asleep.” 

“That is good news — poor desolate little 
thing !” said Father Jannison, with a great sigh 
of pity for the motherless child; “have some- 
thing nice and hot for her when she awakes, my 
child; she will need it. Now,” he added, as 
Mrs. Meggs closed the door, “we’ll read poor 
Zoe’s will.” 

But it was not a will, according to legal form- 
ula, although it contained her last requests; it 
was more like a confession, which blinded Father 
Jannison’s eyes with tears as he read it, and held 
Allan Brooke in stern, pale silence, his face cov- 
ered with his hands as he listened. 

“I confess,” so it ran,, “that I married Don 
Eduardo D’Oli vieras from motives of ambition, 
and without a single sentiment to consecrate my 
union. I married him, loving another man. 
This was my sin, which I will not attempt to 
extenuate by excuses which weigh nothing with 
eternal justice — my sin, which found me out in 
an hour most unexpected. 

“ D’Oli vieras was not a bad or cruel man; his 
impulses were kindly and generous; but he was 
neither intellectual nor cultivated in his habits 
of thought, therefore I found no pleasure in his 
companionship; there was an utter dearth of sym- 
pathy in all our pursuits; he had not one single 
quality to evoke my admiration or affection. Do 
you not already pity me, and see that my punish- 
ment was not slow on the heels of my sin? For a 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


73 


nature like mine, to live in constant and close as- 
sociation with one like his was a daily torture, but 
he idolized me, he lavished his wealth without 
stint upon me, he anticipated every wish, every 
fancy, and on the deatli of my father redoubled 
his tenderness and attentions. I sometimes felt 
a deep pity for the man I had so deceived, and 
tried with all the power of my strong will to 
conquer the repugnance towards him which in- 
creased daily; but it was of no use — I grew to 
liate him; the very sound of his creaking slip- 
pers filled me with loathing; and when I heard 
liis sharp, nasal voice, even at a distance, I felt 
like flying to the commission of some desperate 
act which would forever free me from my bond- 
age. I could scarcely restrain my passionate dis- 
like for my husband within the bounds of a cold 
civility. I knew nothing of the consolations of 
religion; I was a stranger and alien to my faith; 
sometimes, in moments of deep despair, a divine, 
pitying face, bearing impress of sublime sorrow, 
and gazing into the troubled deeps of my soul 
with indescribable compassion and tenderness, 
arose on my vision, conjured up doubtless by my 
dire needs and longing for sympathy, but it ever 
reminded me of an old painting of the Metier 
Doloi'osct which used to hang on the wall of my 
mother’s room at “ Buckrae,” and while contem- 
plating her sorrows, my own somehow would sink 
into insignificance — my thoughts would fashion 
themselves into prayers to her for protection and 
assistance. Then I would feel angry with my- 
self for yielding to the impulses of nature and 
imagination, and laugh bitterly at my weakness 
in seeking even a momentary consolation in such 
superstitious ideas. 


74 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


“Years passed on in this way, — ten long, bit- 
ter, weary years, when the anguish of my heart 
was somewhat assuaged by the faet’that I should 
be a mother — that I should hold a living babe to 
my breast — that I should have at last something 
on which to lavish the pent-up tenderness of my 
woman’s nature, without sin. D’Oli vieras was 
very happy; the costly preparations he caused to 
be made for the arrival of his child exceeded all 
bounds, and wearied me beyond expression, for 
he thought and talked of nothing else. The 
hope of paternity seemed to have touched his 
very soul and awakened a sentiment of some- 
thing like piety in him, for he began to frequent 
the churches, — he made a rich offering of silver 
candelabra and a costly lace drapery to the shrine 
of the Blessed Virgin — he attended Mass de- 
voutly, and went daily to some of the religious 
institutions to ask their prayers, and give alms 
to propitiate the favor of heaven, and bring its 
blessings upon his child. He was in a perpetual 
and indescribable fuss , highly trying to one of 
my temperament; but I will not attempt to go 
over the trials of this phase of my life. I de- 
served them, and bore them with what proud 
endurance I could; I emulated Socrates, not 
Christ. I had done such violence to my nature 
that I had trained myself by degrees to a stoicism 
which in the old pagan days would have entitled 
me to a niche in their temples as an incarnation 
of endurance. I leaned on my pride alone for 
support; and you will see what help it gave me, 
when, like a brittle reed, it broke from under 
me. 

“Lucia was born, and I lay for weeks uncon- 
scious of everything, delirious with fever, and in 


75 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 

such an extremity that the physicians had not 
the least hope of my recovery; and in my deli- 
rium I revealed the story of my early, lasting 
love for Allan Brooke. I talked of and to him 
incessantly, as in the old happy days, and re- 
peated over and over again the letters he used to 
write. My faithful nurse related it all to me 
afterwards. My husband at first paid no atten- 
tion to my ravings, but at length, roused to a 
jealous fury by their persistency and coherence, 
which explained all my coldness and repugnance 
towards him, he demanded my keys from my 
woman and searched my escritoire , where he 
found evidence of the justice of his suspicions; 
my girlish diary full of fond thoughts of the 
man I loved, with every little tender incident 
noted down; the letters written to Allan Brooke 
during our engagement, which he had returned 
to me on the eve of my marriage, and which I 
had preserved as mementoes of the one brief hap- 
piness of my life; it was all laid bare to him, 
and but for the thought that divine justice was 
about overtaking me, he would have killed me 
in the wild frenzy of rage that these revelations 
threw him into. His friends watched and 
guarded him as they would a madman, until his 
unreasoning fury abated into a sullen, bitter 
rage far more dangerous to my peace. He never 
spoke to me afterwards, although we lived ‘be- 
neath the same roof; occasionally he ordered the 
child to be brought to him, and ordered she 
should be called Lucia, after his own mother; 
for myself he never inquired, he ignored my ex- 
istence as much as if I had died and been buried. 
Then came upon me a great remorse for having 
brought such a blight on the life of one who had 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


76 

meant and acted kindly towards me, who had 
been unsparing of all that he thought would con- 
tribute to my happiness, who would have placed 
the diadem of an empire upon my head could he 
have wielded the power to do so. I humbled 
myself to write to him, begging his forgiveness, 
and promised him the patient duty of a true wife, 
and the exercise of every effort to make him 
some amends for the past; but he sent my letter 
back by his overseer, with a message of bitter 
scorn and unrelenting hate, threatening if I ever 
dared write him another line, or so much as send 
him a message, he would take away my child. 

“I was deeply stung by the repulse and the 
insulting way of it; but in my soul, already en- 
lightened by remorse, I felt that my punishment 
was just, and prayed, for the first time — -I prayed 
that Almighty God would accept my sufferings 
as part of the expiation due for my sin. 

“ Shortly afterwards I learned through a friend 
that D’Oli vieras was squandering his princely 
fortune at the gaming-table and in wild specu- 
lations, lavishing large sums 011 ballet-dancers, 
and in every conceivable way he could think of ; 
that he 110 longer went to church ; the waters of 
bitterness had quenched forever the momentary 
spark of piety which the expectation of a child 
had kindled in his soul; he openly declared him- 
self an atheist, and had utterly lost faith in hu- 
manity. Mea culpa! mea culpa! mea culpa! 

“Nearly worn out by base excesses, indulged 
in year after year, he one day, when under the 
influence of strong drink, went into a cock-pit, 
where he got into a brawl in which he was 
fatally wounded by one of the low ruffians he 
was struggling with, and died in a few hours, 


77 


zoe’s daughter. 

without making a sign or uttering a word of for- 
giveness. He died insolvent; he had beggared 
me, as he had sworn with a great oath to do; and 
before he was covered in his grave, the execu- 
tioners of the law were in possession, in behalf 
of his creditors, of his effects; I was homeless, and 
without a dollar upon earth — literally beggared 
— and my desolate heart turned towards Buckrae, 
where I was at least sure of a shelter. I sold 
my diamonds, which were of the first water, and 
other costly and valuable jewels, and realized a 
sufficient sum to take me back to my old home 
and live there in some comfort. * * * * 

“I open this to beg that Allan Brooke will 
forgive me, and be a friend to my orphan child. 
Let it be forgotten that by my pride two lives 
were ruined; then may I hope to be forgiven by 
Him who alone can cancel all sin, and heal its 
deadly wounds. 

“There is a sum of money in the Merchants’ 
Bank, of Baltimore — five thousand dollars — 
which I wish profitably invested for my child. 
I leave “Buckrae” to her to do as she pleases 
with when she is eighteen years old; and I 
beseech her to remember that this world’s goods 
are perishable things, and that it is only in the 
practices of religion that any abiding peace and 
happiness can be found. Let her be admonished 
by my unhappy experience, and avoid the errors 
which have wrecked my life. * * *” 

This closed the secret history of Zoe’s life 
abroad; she had in truth passed through an ordeal 
of fire, which had scorched and burnt away the 
dross from her soul, leaving it free for repentance 
and hope; and now, saved from the tempest and 
wreck, let us trust that she found rest at last. 


78 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


“You’ll take the child, I suppose, Brooke,” 
said Father Jannison, as he refolded the package 
and resealed it. 

“As my own, so help me God!” answered Al- 
lan Brooke, in tones so strongly moved that they 
rang with an echo in the lofty room, which 
seemed to repeat softly, “ help me God!” Father 
Jannison lifted his head and looked around him, 
the faint echo sounded so like a whisper; then he 
grasped Allan Brooke’s hand, which was as cold 
as ice, and looking into his face saw it filled with 
such anguish in all its lines, that, deeply touched, 
he laid his hand softly upon his head, and saying, 
“God be thy helper, my child,” left the room, 
thinking it better for the man that he should 
wrestle with his grief in solitude. 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


79 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE COMPACT. 

Father Jannison feared there would be a 
stormy scene with Lucia when the time came 
for her to leave “Buckrae” with a stranger; but 
he might have spared himself all uneasiness, for 
she made no resistance; there was no passionate 
outbreak, not a tear fell, but her eyes were lit by 
a burning glow as if from some inward fire that 
was consuming her, and there was a heavy 
apathy in all her movements: the blow had 
benumbed every faculty, and made her dumb 
and despairing. Allan Brooke spoke gently and 
tenderly to her as they drove down to the 
“Landing,” but she made no answer, and when 
he took her hands to lift her into the boat, he 
felt that they were as cold as stone. Father 
Jannison lifted her up in his arms and kissed 
her, but she only fixed her eyes with a frightened 
look on his, and answered nothing when he 
blessed her and told her he was coming to “Hay- 
lands” to see her in a day or two — although he 
spoke in Spanish, thinking that the sound of 
her native tongue, which she dearly loved, 
would please her. * 

Allan Brooke did not know what to do with 
his ward, or for her; he never was so puzzled in 
all his life. Had she grieved and raved, he 
would have tried to comfort and soothe her; had 


8o 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


she been in the least like other children, he 
could with his fine tact have found some means 
to divert her from her grief. But all his patient 
efforts, day after day, resulted in dead failure: 
nothing seemed to warm into feeling for a single 
instant this living being turned into stone by a 
sudden and bitter grief. There was, so far, no 
help that he could think of, either in religion or 
philosophy, to apply to a mood which was to 
him both strange and appalling. 

One day he sent for Chloe, an old “mammy” 
on the plantation, who had nursed him in. his 
infancy — one of those very black, high-featured, 
good-naturedly imperious tyrants often found 
among the house-slaves of wealthy planters — 
who had taken a great interest in Lucia, at- 
tended to her exclusively, and to whom the child 
submitted passively, and he asked her what she 
“thought could be the matter with the ‘young 
Mistress.’ ” 

“Well, I tell you what, Mars’ r Allan, I think 
she’s sort o’ stunned by her ’diction,” answered 
Chloe. “ I never can get a word outeu her ’cept 
‘Yes,’ and sometimes ‘No;’ and ’stead of sleep- 
ing, if you b’lieve me she sets up in bed all 
night long with her hands clasped like, round 
her knees, jest staring out into the dark, ’till 
she fairly scares me.” 

“That is frightful. I’m sure I don’t know 
what to do. I’ve done everything I could think 
of to make her happy at ‘Haylands,’” said 
x^llan Brooke, thrusting his hands into his 
pockets, and walking to and fro with bent brows. 
“I never heard of such a case in my life. Can’t 
you think of something, mammy? you’ve been 
used to children and their humors these fifty 
years. ’ ’ 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER, 


8l 


“My ’pinion aint worth much, I reckon,” 
said Cliloe, with a little toss of her gayly- 
turbaned head, “but it ’pears to me, Mars’r 
Allan, the best thing you could do would be to 
write and ax Miss Ellen to come, and fotcli her 
darters along; maybe young comp’ny ’ll bring 
little Missis to. ’Pears to me she’s struck sort o’ 
dead in the sap. I don’ know ’zactly what it be, 
but you’d a heap better send for Miss Ellen.” 

“That is sound advice, mammy. I’ll write 
now directly to my sister, and beg her to come 
with her children to ‘Haylands’ without delay; 
women know so much more about the nature of 
children than men do. Meanwhile be very kind 
to the poor little thing,” said Allan Brooke, 
looking very much relieved, as he stepped 
through a window opening to the floor out on 
the lawn, to smoke a cigar over the plan before 
he wrote. 

“Ah, ha!” said Cliloe, looking after him with 
a fond pity in her eyes, “it’s a hard case, I say, 
after being heart-broken by the mother and 
cheated by her out of wife- and child’ll of your 
own, to be bothered out of the life of you by her 
chile. It ’pears onjust, but I does feel mighty 
sorry for the poor little onfriendly creetur — and 
for Mars’r Allan’s sake I’ll do a good part by 
her as fur as I know. I’ll go now right arter 
her and coax her to come and see the young 
goslin’s take their first swim.” 

But Chloe’s kind intentions were frustrated in 
the most unlooked-for way: Lucia could not be 
found, high or low, in the house or out of it — 
neither in the grove, in the glen, nor in the boat- 
liouse; she had disappeared without leaving a 
trace behind. All the field-hands were called 


82 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


together by a blast on the dinner-horn, and 
commanded to go and search for her in every 
direction; and Allan Brooke mounted his horse — 
thinking she had perhaps strayed farther than 
she intended from “Haylands,” and got lost — 
and rode mile after mile, calling her name, and 
dismounting where the undergrowth was dense, 
to go through it with “many a scratch and 
scar,” but in vain; there was not a trace of her 
to be seen — neither of footsteps in the soft sand 
of the road, nor the fragment of a garment cling- 
ing to the thorn-bushes, to indicate that she had 
passed any of the places he examined; then he 
returned home, hoping to hear there that she 
was found, just as the excited negroes, coming 
back from their fruitless search, met together on 
the lawn, and declared their firm belief that 
“she must be drowned.” 

But Iviicia was neither drowned nor lost, al- 
though she came very near such a fate. The 
fervor and grief of her heart had broken bounds 
at last, and on that day a passionate longing 
took possession of her to go to her mother’s 
grave — to go once more into the room where she 
last saw her — to throw herself before the image 
of the Mater Dolorosa — now indeed, her true 
mother — and where no eye could see, no ear 
hear her, pour out the stormy grief of her heart. 
She did not think it in these words perhaps, but 
such were the motives that impelled her, and 
starting from the great cushioned chair in the 
darkened drawing-room, where she had curled 
herself up, she ran like some hunted thing, 
without hat or shawl, down to the shore. The 
broad blue river sparkled and danced in the sun- 
shine, and the waves made low murmuring 


83 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 

music at her feet; but the very beauty of it all 
was a cruel mockery to the child- — for how was 
she to get across? There lay “Buckrae” on the 
other side; she could see a quaint gable, a turret, 
and a stack of chimneys through the trees; and 
farther down, on that bluff where the cedars and 
beeches, crowded together, threw a solemn 
shadow like a pall over the gleaming waters 
below, was her mother’s grave, so near yet so dis- 
tant, so easy to reach, yet so inaccessible. She 
saw, higher up on the shore, some of the “ Hay- 
lands” people busied with a boat as if getting 
ready to hoist sail, the bow headed towards St. 
Inigoes, and she was sure they were going there, 
for Allan Brooke’s mail used to come to him via 
St. Inigoes, and this was the boat, “The Cur- 
lew,” that he always sent over. But she dared 
not go to ask them to take her as far as “Buckrae;” 
she knew that not one of them would have braved 
their master’s displeasure by so doing, but that 
she would have been lifted up in a pair of brawny 
arms and carried up to the “great house,” and 
safely placed under his or Chloe’s protection. 
The very thought of it made her shudder, and 
in her desperation she was tempted to throw her- 
self into the river; but she remembered the 
promise made that night long ago to her mother, 
and gasping “ Madre Dolores , help me! help 
me!” she shrank back quickly from the edge of 
the waves. As she sat there under the shadow 
of a willow, looking up and down as if for help, 
she saw the “Curlew” sail gayly by, the negroes 
singing, “ I’ll slioot ole Aggy down,” as, favored 
by wind and tide, they floated swiftly along; the 
pathos of the air, as the sound of their voices 
died away in the distance, soothed for a moment 


8 4 


ZO£’s DAUGHTER. 


the tumultuous fury of her heart, only to make 
the after unrest greater; she wrung her poor little 
hands together, and a half-smothered cry of great 
pain escaped her lips. Just then she saw a canoe 
slioot round into the cove — the negro fisherman 
tied it to a stake some distance out, then gathered 
up his paddles, his fishing-tackle, and a basket 
of fish, and stepping over the side, waded in to 
the shore, quickly disappearing in one of the 
many paths that led from the river up to the 
negroes’ quarters. 

“The water is shallow there — it only came a 
little above his knees; I can wade out and get 
into the canoe, and the south wind will float me 
across to ‘Buckrae’” thought Lucia; “there is 
no one in sight, and if I make haste I shall be 
half way to my darling before they miss me.” 
Springing up she ran down the bank, crossed 
the sands, and plunging into the river waded out 
towards the frail shell of a boat, the water reach- 
ing above her waist, and the current almost 
washing her off her feet, but she succeeded ill 
reaching and scrambling into it; then, half 
frantic with dread lest some one should see and 
stop her, she tugged at the rope and finally un- 
tied it, and in another instant she was adrift on 
the broad, rapid river, without paddle or oar. 
The south wind was powerless to help her with- 
out rudder or sail, and the unmanageable shell 
was entirely at the mercy of the current, which 
soon swept it out rapidly towards the bay, 
where the long, heavy rollers of some far away 
storm were coining in from the Atlantic with a 
deafening rush and roar, tossing and pitching 
the canoe to and fro like a feather. Lucia saw 
her danger; she was helpless, and sat with folded 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 85 

hands awaiting her doom with supreme tran- 
quillity. 

“I shall soon see her!” she thought; “she 
will hold me in her arms close, close to her 
breast. O, mother! my mother! where are you? 
Come where I can touch your hand when the 
waves go over me! ” 

But while the child, with a smile upon her 
face, as if already in view of the outstretched 
arms of her mother, fearless of material death, 
and whispering her simple prayers with fervor to 
the Mother of Jesus, expected every moment to 
be engulphed, she heard a loud, frightened shout 
coming towards her over the waters, and starting 
round she sawjupe pulling with all his might 
and main with two oars towards her, and with 
an instinct quite natural under the circumstances, 
but ridiculous in the extreme when thought over 
when the danger was past, shouting to her to 
“Hold “on!” to “Stop tliar ’till he got up,” 
which he finally did after a desperate chase, 
panting and so drenched with sweat that he 
looked as if he had just emerged from a sea of 
oil. 

“Lord, chile!” he stammered, grasping the 
canoe, which bounced against his with a shock 
that came near upsetting both, “you’s done 
skeared me ’most to death! What pussessed you 
to start off in dat ’ar current wliar it’s strong 
’nuff to make a man-o’-war drag her anchors — • 
and nary a oar, or paddle, or nuffin’? Body an’ 
soul, chile! ’deed somebody ought to see arter 
you better’11 dis! I wouldn’t — ole nigger as I 
is — give much for sich keer of a poor little or- 
phan as dis over yander at ‘ Hay lands,’ and you 
Ramsey in the grain, if you is ‘Deliverus.’ ” 


86 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


So Jupe, relieving himself of his scare and his 
fury together, got Lucia into his periogue, and 
wrapping her in an old sail that he always kept 
there for a covering in wet weather, he seated her 
in the bottom of the craft: then fastening Bill 
Cray’s canoe — : “he knowed it was Bill Cray’s 
soon as he sot eyes on it” — to the stern of the 
periogue, he headed for “Haylands. ” 

“Don’t take me back!” cried the child, wring- 
ing her hands. “Don’t! don’t take me back 
there.” 

“But I must, honey; what could you do yan- 
der all by yourself, now your mammy’s done 
gone? Mars’ r Brooke he’d raise Tom if I ded.” 

“ Oh, Uncle Jupe, take me to ‘ Buckrae ’ just 
for a little while, to mamma’s grave. I tried to 
go myself. Take me there, just for a little 
while!” 

“Look you, little Missis, don’t you see you is 
wet up to your neck, an’ its gittin’ to blow cold 
like? De wind’s chopped round to de norf, and 
you’d take pleurisy or sumthin’. I’ll take you 
home now, an’ come for you to-morrow, if you 
ain’t sick; for I’ve heern tell you coined from a 
hot country, an’ is as easy to kill by wet an’ cold 
as a butterfly,” said Jupe, coaxingly. 

“ I want to die! I want to go to my mother!” 
she wailed. “What did you come for? I 
should have been with her now, if you hadn’t 
come.” 

“All in de Lord’s time, honey. We ain’t got 
no right to force ourselfs in de Marster’s pres- 
ence; when He wants us He’ll call fur us. We 
must bide our time, be it long or short, if we 
want’s to see the inside of Salem’s shinin’ gates, 
where de Lord an’ His holy Mother, and de 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


87 

saints, an’ de great army of dem as goed up 
through deep triberlation is crowned an’ happy 
forever. She’s thar—your mother — bless God! 
an’ a heep happier, chile, dan she could ever be 
here.” 

But Lucia did not hear the old negro’s com- 
forting words. She bowed her head upon her 
knees in a desperate sorrow; she closed her ears 
to all outward sounds, and heard only the loud, 
despairing cries of her desolate heart. And 
Jupe, at an'utter loss what to say in the presence 
of such an unanswering grief, began to whistle 
as he pulled at the oars, nor made any further 
attempts to console Lucia; he was only bent on 
taking her back to “Haylands,” and giving the 
“ people thar a piece of his mind, an’ speakin’ 
out to Mars’ Allan hisself ’ bout letting de chile 
go strayin’ round sicli a way.” When they got 
to “Haylands” the people of the plantation, in 
force, were dragging the river at different points 
in the firm belief that the child was drowned; 
and when Jupe, who saw what they were about, 
hailed the nearest party and told them that he 
had her safe and sound, there arose a shout that 
reverberated along the shore, swiftly bringing all 
hands together from the “great house,” the 
more distant quarters, and along the shore. 
Lucia was terrified by the crowding faces, by 
their tumultous cries of welcome, by their eager 
questions, by the din and confusion on every 
side; and when Chloe came puffing and panting 
and sent the negroes right and left, and lifted 
her like a feather in her arms, she clung to her, 
her head drooping upon her shoulder, speechless 
and exhausted. The energetic Chloe never 
stopped to ask or answer a question, but carried 


83 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 


her nearly lifeless burden up stairs into the bath- 
room and plunged her into a warm bath, rub- 
bing her until, had she not been too proud to 
complain, the child would have cried out; but 
her circulation was fully restored by the vigor- 
ous manipulations, and by the time she was 
clothed in soft woolen garments and persuaded 
to swallow a cup of hot coffee, she was able to 
move about as usual, and presently escaped all 
questioning and wondering exclamations of the 
housemaids, who, under the pretence of help- 
ing “Aunt Chloe,” would come into the room to 
gratify their curiosity, if only by a glance at 
“ little Missy,” by stealing off when Chloe left 
her alone for a few minutes, to the darkened 
drawing-room, which was seldom opened, where 
she threw herself on a sofa which set back in a 
deep recess, and lay brooding in one of her old 
sullen fits of rage until the quiet and gloom of 
the room, the perfect rest after the unusual ex- 
citement of the day, reacted on her overstrung 
nerves, and she fell into a profound sleep. 

Here Allan Brooke, directed by Chloe, who 
was not long in finding where Lucia had hidden 
herself, found his ward when he returned, about 
sunset, half distracted, from his fruitless search. 

“I seen she was ’sleep when I found her, 
Mass’ r Allan. I was ’feared first that she had 
gone off agin; but bless the Lord, I was mighty 
thankful when I seen her layin’ there so peace- 
ful, an’ I wouldn’t ’sturb her by carryin’ her up 
to her room,” whispered Chloe, as she stood at 
the drawing-room door with Allan Brooke, who 
had heard of Lucia’s adventure and rescue, from 
Jupe himself, who waited on the lawn for him 
to return, aud did give him a “piece of his 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


89 

mind” about taking better care of bis ward, in 
return for which the master tossed him half a 
dollar and told him to go to the kitchen and get 
a hot supper. 

‘‘That was right, ‘maummy;’ sleep will do 
her more good than anything we can do for her,” 
answered the master, in low tones, fearful of 
awakening her; “keep everything quiet, and 
don’t let her be disturbed on any account”. 
Then he closed the door gently, and the child 
was left alone with her dreams. 

Peace came to Lucia’s stormy soul in her 
sleep. She was in the centre of a wild chaos of 
dreams: tossing waters, dark, low-hanging 
clouds, howling winds and shapes of dread sur- 
rounding her, mingling together in mad con- 
fusion; abysses opened below her; starless depths, 
black with midnight gloom, stretched above 
her; there was no ray of light anywhere — only 
the howling, chaotic night, only the ghastly, 
unearthly shapes ever flitting and crowding close 
upon her, confusing her mind with horror and 
fear. All seemed lost, when, like Tannhauser of 
the legend, her soul cried aloud for help to the 
Mater Dolorosa; she did not shape her prayer 
into words — her agony and weakness made her 
appeal more eloquent than the most studied 
phrases could have done— her desolation was in 
itself a prayer; and suddenly a sweet and distant 
strain of music, half drowned at times in the 
mad uproar that surged around her, came float- 
ing past — then another, like light leaping into 
darkness, more ravishing and heavenly, linger- 
ing longer and coming nearer, hushed her soul 
into momentary calm; nearer it came, louder it 
swelled, the dtead sounds which had affrighted 


9 ° 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


lier receding as it advanced, until it filled all 
the air with melody and peace. Listening, she 
stood entranced, her soul filled with joy as with 
a new life, every nerve thrilling, every vein 
pulsing to the heavenly vibrations. Then a 
luminous radiance shone in the distant twilight 
and came swiftly towards her, and she saw, as 
through a transparent veil, the form of her 
mother, ineffably fair, and clad in white, softly- 
shining robes, approaching her to the measured 
cadence of the music. Flying with a cry of joy 
towards her, she was folded to her bosom, and 
the kiss that was imprinted on her forehead sent 
an electric thrill of happiness through her being. 
Then the form, waving farewells with the fair, 
long hands, and smiling fondly, slowly faded 
out of sight behind the silvery mist; and al- 
though she tried to follow and grasp the hem of 
its garments, to hold and follow it, some strong 
invisible power held her back; aiid while she 
stood dumb w T ith grief, gazing towards the spot, 
another form appeared, her face veiled, and* 
loose robes of purple, edged with broad, glitter- 
ing bands of gold, falling around her stately 
figure, covering her from head to foot except one 
spot just over her heart, and there Lucia saw a 
sword piercing it through and through. The 
music sobbed and wailed as if in agony — its 
divine notes heavy as with human pain, but 
still ravishiugly sweet — and the child trembled 
with awe and would have fled, but the veiled 
form, now quite near, took her hand, and call- 
ing her by name, placed upon her head a crown 
of thorns, saying in low, pitying accents: “With 
a crown like this my Son was crowned.” Then 
when Lucia lifted her eyes she found herself 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 91 

alone, with only the music swelling and throb- 
bing passionately, solemnly around her. 

“It was she — it was the Mater Dolorosa!" 
she murmured. Then she lifted her hand to 
her head, to feel if the crown of thorns was still 
there, but it was gone, and she wondered, for 
still she heard the marvellous harmonies surg- 
ing and floating and making the air shiver 
around her, and did not know that , she was 
awake until it suddenly ceased, and a door 
opening, a flood of light poured in; starting, she 
sat up, and looking towards it saw her guardian 
standing upon the threshold as if fearing to enter 
lest he should awaken her. She knew then that 
she had dreamed; and when Allan Brooke, who 
knew all along that she was there, arose from 
the organ where he had been playing a grand 
sonata of Beethoven’s and a sublime old Dies 
Irce of Palestrina’s, came in to speak to her, she 
was weeping freely and silently such tears as 
cool the fever of the heart, and soothe like balm 
its bleeding wounds, the first she had shed since 
her mother died. 

“That is good,” thought the man, waiting pa- 
tiently to speak; then at last when the sobs grew 
fainter, he said as he sat down by her and took 
her hand, holding it with fatherly tenderness : 

“Lucia, my child, should you not like to go 
with me in the morning to plant some flowers 
over the spot where your mother is resting?” 
He had heard all about her desperate effort to 
get there from Jupe, who, by the way, had been 
made much of, telling the story over and over 
again to fresh listeners as they came, until 
there was not a dusky cheek on the plantation 
that had not been wetted with tears at the simple 


92 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


pathos of the relation. But Allan Brooke did 
not refer to the adventure; he felt no rebuke in 
his heart for her — only a deep, pitying tender- 
ness for the forlorn, motherless girl. She could 
not speak for the passion of tears that again 
smothered her utterance, but she put out her 
poor little hand, and laid it with the other that 
lie held in his broad palm, and when he passed 
his arm around her, drawing her nearer to his 
breast, she nestled there like a storm-tossed bird 
that had suddenly found the shelter of its 
mother’s wing once more. 

“We will be the best of friends, my child: 
your mother wished it — it was almost the last 
word she said, and I solemnly swore to protect 
and cherish you as if you were my own child, 
and she was satisfied; then, as if only waiting 
for my words, she smiled, and closing her eyes, 
uttered a low sigh of relief and died,” said 
Allan Brooke in low, sympathetic tones. 

“I have just seen my mother,” she sobbed. 
“It must have been a dream, but I saw her all 
the same, and she folded me in her arms and 
kissed me. What she wished me to do I will 
do. I will live, Mr. Brooke, and have no more 
wicked thoughts about dying, but live and try 
to be all that she hoped I would be; but I am 
very passionate — I am like a tigress sometimes — 
I get mad, and the blood fills my head with 
blind fury — oh, Mr. Brooke, I am dreadful, and 
you will have much trouble with me!” 

“Trust me, little girl, I will be patient and 
good to you. I’m a very lonely man, Lucia. 
I loved your mother once — nay, I never ceased 
loving her — and it is for her sake that I am with- 
out the ties that make most men happy. Be a 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


93 


daughter to me, and make up to me that which 
I have lost,” he said, in low, grave tones, and 
her heart was touched by the involuntary pathos 
of his voice; she felt that what he said was true, 
without dissimulation, and was burning with a 
desire to know more than he had already told 
her; but she shrank from it then — she did not 
know how to unwind the hidden coil of other 
people’s lives — so she only said in low, timid 
tones: 

“I will try to do my best, Mr. Brooke; I will 
try to love you for my mother’s sake.” 

And so the compact was sealed between them: 
father and daughter they were to be henceforth 
to each other; and Lucia, calmed by her dream, 
her tears, and rested by her long sleep, but with 
the thought of the Madre Dolores and the crown 
of thorns of her vision ever present to her mind, 
resolved to requite his care with such love as she 
could give him, and begin in earnest to over- 
come her faults. She sat beside him at the tea- 
table that night, and ate sparingly, it is true, 
but more than had passed her lips for days to- 
gether — and after tea he led her by the hand 
into the music-room, which she had not seen 
until now, where he played for her the music of 
the old Catholic masters, so full of those solemn 
and divine strains only inspired by true faith; 
then he touched the keys to lighter and more 
modern lays, singing for her the sweet ballads 
of Scotland, and the brilliant chansons of France 
— never wearying, for music was the passion 
and solace of his life, until he thought she might 
grow tired; then he closed organ and piano, and 
showed her marvellous pictures of other lands — 
classic ruins, wild scenery, regal palaces, old 


94 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


cities, and weird views of frozen regions where 
the penguin and the white bear hold solemn 
conclaves on the ice-floes under the shadow of 
the glittering icebergs, whose pinnacles, but- 
tresses and arches looked indeed like “frozen 
music” — until the deep sobs of her heart were 
quite lulled to rest, and the thought of her dead 
mother was clothed in a radiance, as in her 
dream. 


95 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE NEW HOME AT HAYUANDS. 

After tliat, without in the least referring to 
Lucia’s fruitless adventure, Allen Brooke pro- 
posed to her the next day to go with him to visit 
the grave under the old beeches at “Buckrae.” 
And every day after, when the weather was 
fine, they used to cross the river in his fast-sail- 
ing little yacht, loaded, by his private command 
to the gardener, with a freight of choice flowers, 
which made the small craft as gay as Cleopatra’s 
barge, — and with which she, with lavish hand, 
used to cover her mother’s resting-place. 

“I’d rather do it all myself, please,” she 
said, the first time they went, reaching out her 
hand to withhold his as he was in the act of lay- 
ing a cluster of passion-flowers above Zoe’s 
breast; “she was all mine, and I all hers,” she 
added, as if talking to herself. 

“As you wish,” he answered gently, — for 
how could the child know that to him, too, the 
quiet sleeper below had been all that life held 
most dear ! / 

“No!” she said, another mood coming 
swiftly over her as he was about removing the 
flowers; “ let them be: she would like it if she 
knew. My darling loved everything that was 
good to me, and you are good to me, Mr. 
Brooke; so you may always put some flowers 
there, right over her poor broken heart. Did 


96 ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 

you know that her heart was broken, Mr. 
Brooke?” 

This was the first time Lucia had ever spoken 
so much of her mother to him, and every word 
she uttered gave his faithful heart a pang, and 
was an unintentional appeal to him, full of 
pathos, asking for protection and tenderness. 

“ Life breaks most hearts, little one, in one 
way or another; but take comfort in knowing 
that hers, if wounded here, is healed now where 
tears are wiped away from every eye, and where 
there is no more sighing or weeping forever,” 
he said, in low, gentle tones. 

Lucia was bending over a great heap of flow- 
ers, selecting the loveliest and most fragrant to 
weave in a garland to encircle her mother’s grave, 
but there was something in her guardian’s voice 
and words that sunk like a soft refreshing dew 
into the fevered wound of her heart; and, lifting 
her head quickly, she looked with a bright trust- 
ing glance, which almost made her plain face 
beautiful, into his eyes, and said in trembling, 
joyous tones: u Yes ! oil yes, Mr. Brooke, — that 
is what she once told me with her own lips ! 
How selfish I am to want her back ! Oh, my 
darling ! ” she cried, kneeling by the grave and 
throwing her arms around it, while she pressed 
her cheek close to it, “I am glad, glad that you 
are there, where no pain nor sorrow cornels any 
more; yes, I am glad !” 

Allan Brooke felt that there should be no wit- 
ness to an abandon of grief so sacred as this; 
and moving away, his eyes moistened with tears, 
he sat down on the mouldering tombstone that 
covered the dust of old Sir John Ramsey, and 
watched the river flowing on in its ceaseless, 


97 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 

changeless course, ever the same while all else was 
changing, still bright, and drinking in, never 
satiated or weary, the indescribable glory of sun- 
sets, the glittering splendor of moon and stars, 
the soft brooding shadows of the whispering 
woods, the first smiles of the rising dawn which 
came ever like a fair spirit out of the darkness — 
while all the time living hearts were fading and 
breaking in the struggle of life, it still whispered 
its low sweet song as it fled past to the sea, while 
the earth was filled with the sough of countless 
lamentations which never ceased — never ceased, 
although thousands of quivering lips long wrung 
by human anguish drooped daily into eternal 
silence; for the empty ranks are ever filling up, 
and the deep pitiful undertone of life goes on, 
only waiting for the judgment day to hush it to 
rest and turn its sorrow into joy, its wail into 
lau dates. 

He felt a light touch on his shoulder, and 
turning quickly saw Lucia standing beside him; 
and there was, he noticed, a peaceful, softened 
light in the child’s eyes which he had not seen 
there before. 

“I have finished, Mr. Brooke, and am ready 
to go now,” she said. 

“ So soon, my child ! I am in no hurry.” 

“I’d rather go away while they are fresh,” 
she said, pointing to Zoe’s grave, covered deep 
in flowers. 

“Then we’ll take a sail up the river, if you 
like; perhaps we shall have time to go to St. 
Inigoes,” he answered, as they went down the 
path leading to the river. 

“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully; “I shall like 
that.” 

7 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


98 

The wind was fair, the tide coming in, and they 
soon reached the old mission, and had time to 
pay Father Jannison a visit, who was delighted 
to see them, and behaved to Lucia with an affec- 
tionate sympathetic kindness she never forgot. 

Thes# visits to Buckrae, the sails on the river, 
and the trips to St. Inigoes, where Father 
Jannison daily expected them, proved a great 
solace and restorative 1 6 Lucia. Allan Brooke 
watched her moods with an observant eye, and 
noticed that when most happy the more silent 
she became, and found out — not by words, but 
by her silence — how enthusiastic her love for the 
beautiful in nature was. He saw how much 
those excursions up and down the river delighted 
her; he knew it by the kindling of her eyes, by 
the soft glow that flushed her cheeks, and the 
tranquil smile that rested upon her lips, when with 
her hand idly trailing in the cool water as the 
boat swept on, she watched the glory of the sun- 
set, when cloud and wave were flaming and flick- 
ering with radiance; when the east, like a blush- 
ing bride, reflected back in rose-tinted hues and 
half-veiled sparkles of brilliance the departing 
smiles of day; when the broad river looked as if 
sprinkled with rainbows, and the dark cedars 
along the shore sent out the fragrant aroma of 
their veins, like incense; and the last low warb- 
ling of the birds nesting in their branches min- 
gled with the low rushing sound of the waves! 
He saw how she loved to watch the solitary 
herons on the edge of the salt marshes, waiting 
with half-closed eyes and grotesque posture for 
their unwary prey; and listen to the click of the 
sedge-hens, busy building their nests among the 
tall grasses skirting the shores; in fact, he saw 


ZOK’S DAUGHTER. 


99 


the child was in perfect rapport with nature, 
and knew that had she not been Christian she 
would have found deities in every lichen-covered 
rock, in every mossy glen, in every bubbling 
spring, in the beautiful river and groves of oak 
and pine, in the stars and the sunset, in the 
dawn and in the darkness; but the vitalizing 
knowledge of God who created all, consecrated 
this love for nature, and turned it into a true 
adoration of His attributes. Neither of them 
had analyzed or defined what the other felt or 
discovered — hence there arose no conventional 
reasoning or restraints to fritter away the illu- 
sions of imagination and fancy on her part to 
dull scientific facts, and to destroy the sweet, 
sympathetic enjoyment he felt in watching the 
unfolding of her rich, strangely endowed nature. 

It may be thought that Lucia's character is 
overdrawn, but it must be remembered that she 
was a strange, exceptional child, who inherited 
a passionate, morbid temperament, who was bap- 
tized in sorrow at her birth, who had grown old 
under the shadows of hate and dread before any 
of the blossoms which usually make glad the 
hearts of children had time to spring around her 
way; and it is not to be wondered at that having 
lived under the moral gloom of such a cloud, she v 
scarcely appreciated the rich adornments and 
luxuries of her early home, or the lavish pro- 
fusion of natural beauties around it, until she 
lost them, and was plunged into what seemed by 
contrast a cold, dreary twilight, without music or 
stars. 

But Lucia’s life in her new home was now 
comparatively happy: it would have been en- 
tirely so but for the empty void in her heart 


IOO 


zoe’s daughter. 


which nothing could fill, and the deep grievous 
longing that came surging with irrepressible 
emotions over her at times for just one single 
glimpse of her mother, for just one close em- 
brace, for just one instant’s rest upon her 
bosom ! These natural but vain yearnings kept 
the sunshine out of her life, and gave her an in- 
troverted sort of existence; while at the same 
time, imperceptibly to the grieving, sensitive 
child, they led her more constantly with a 
strengthened and fortified will to seek help and 
consolation where alone it can be found — at the 
sacred feet of Jesus and Mary. Between their 
suffering humanity and her own, Lucia found 
and clung to the sacred link that united her 
spirit to theirs. “They pity me,” was her con- 
stant thought, “ for they too suffered, and their 
sorrows were greater than mine.” 

A new pleasure entered into Lucia’s life. One 
day Allan Brooke proposed to her to take lessons 
in music, he offering to instruct her. Nothing 
could have delighted her more; her face lit up 
instantly with one of her rare smiles; and she 
exclaimed, impulsively seizing his hand, “ Now ! 
now, Mr. Brooke. I am ready, if you please.” 

“So am I, Lucia,” he answered much grati- 
fied that he had at last found something to give 
her pleasure; “ we’ll begin right off.” In a few 
minutes the music-room was thrown open; the 
music-books were turned over, until an elemen- 
tary work he searched for was found ; and Lucia, 
thrilling with strange delight, took her first 
lesson. Her master understood perfectly the 
science of harmony: this study had been for 
years the solace of his lonely life, and it was to 
him the unfolding of a new delight to be able to 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


IOI 


impart wliat he knew of the mystery of sweet 
sounds to a pupil of such keen perceptions and 
true genius as his ward. 

Lucia’s love for music amounted to a passion; 
she made rapid progress, and before long sur- 
mounted most of its rudimental drudgery and 
technical difficulties, and presently her heart 
learned to find expression, when the moods of 
her silent and unutterable grief swept wildly 
through it, in exquisite chords and sad minor 
keys; at such moments she poured forth tempests 
of harmony, alternating with brilliance and 
gloom, with weird sweet trills between, like 
light through rifts of dark lowering clouds — 
whereby the fury of her stormy nature was 
calmed and the hunger and thirst of her soul ap- 
peased. Her guardian often stood unseen by 
her, listening to these revelations of her inner 
life, until gradually the music-storm sunk into 
low sobbings and faint whispers; then he knew 
that peace was folding its wings around her 
perturbed spirit, and he rested content when, 
like light rising out of darkness, her rich soprano 
voice soared up in some rare old anthem or 
hymn to the Mother of Jesus that he had taught 
her. 

Sometimes when the weather under the influ- 
ence of an easterly wind would be wet and foggy 
two or three days at a time, Lucia would fall 
into her old dumb moods, and sit for hours mo- 
tionless and silent, as if frozen, looking through 
the window towards “Buckrae,” heedless of all 
Chloe’s efforts to cheer her up and get her to 
talk; when she did speak, it was in quick, angry 
tones, ordering Mauih Chloe to “go away,” 
which she generally did in double-quick time, 


102 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


marching straightway to the library to urge the 
master to “make haste and get Miss Ellen to 
come; if he didn’t she ra’aly b’lieved Miss 
Lucy’d go stark starin’ crazy;” adding sol- 
emnly: “It’s my b’lief she’s done got a ‘spell’ 
upon her anyhow.” Upon which Allan Brooke 
made himself miserable, and the last time she did 
so he forthwith penned another letter to Mrs. 
Yellott, begging her to lose no time in coming to 
“Haylands” if she ever loved him or cared for 
his comfort and peace. The letter dispatched, he 
sent to ask Lucia to come down and look at some 
new pictures, or help him to arrange his cabinet, 
or examine his cameos and mosaics; but when 
she came — for whatever might be her mood, she 
never disobeyed his slightest wish — she was list- 
less and silent, and examined the rare and beau- 
tiful things as if she were in a dream from which 
it was impossible to rouse her. Finding his 
efforts useless at such times to win her from her 
dark mood, he grew almost beside himself with 
a feeling of dread responsibility, and was at an 
utter loss how to solve the problem of a life so 
fitful and strange ! But one day he found out 
by accident that nothing soothed and lured his 
ward out of her gloomy apathetic moods so 
effectually as the grand old music he sometimes 
played on the organ: then he ceased importun- 
ing her with attempts to rouse her into a pleas- 
ant interest in things about her, but leaving all 
the intervening doors wide open, he would sit 
down at his organ and send its magnificent tones, 
filled with the inspiration of the old masters of 
music, rolling in soft solemn thunders through the 
lofty rooms, or would execute melodies so sweet 
and thrilling that unearthly voices seemed to 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. IO3 

mingle with them; when presently, as if obeying 
the spell of an incantation, a slight little form 
would come gliding in like a shadow, pausing 
on the way to listen entranced; then drawn 
nearer and nearer by the sweet magnetic chords 
that vibrated in every nerve and shed an un- 
speakable calm over her sorrowful soul, she 
would stand close beside him; and finally, quite 
subdued and weeping softly, the evil mood would 
pass from her even as Saul’s did at the sound of 
David’s harp, and with her head bowed against 
his shoulder, humble and full of peace, she 
waited without a wish or thought beyond the 
present until her guardian arose from the in- 
strument. Sometimes he said : “Are you here, 
Lucia?” or, “My child ! how long have you been 
here?” or, “How good of you, little one, to come 
and take care of me in the dark;” then hand in 
hand they would go into the cheerful well-lighted 
drawing-room, or to tea, where Chloe generally 
had some marvel of delicate cookery hidden 
among the flowers, with which she always pro- 
fusely decorated the table, to tempt their appe- 
tite, which, if successful, was eulogy enough to 
delight this female Sybarite with a delight un- 
speakable. The evening that followed, and for 
many days afterwards, Lucia was almost cheer- 
ful, listening with delight to her guardian while 
he told her marvellous tales of other lands or 
read aloud some exquisite poem which stirred 
her imagination and charmed her taste. He in- 
itiated her into the mysteries of chess, of which 
she became extravagantly fond, and often grew 
eager and excited over the chances of backgam- 
mon, and amused her guardian by exhibiting 
some of the sharp traits indicating a natural love 


104 ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 

of play, which convinced him that what a 
ical writer once said about “all women bei 
heart gamblers” must in the abstract be true. 

But there was in all this a restraint, as well as 
a constrained effort, which was often irksome to 
the man, notwithstanding the tender memories 
that made Lucia an almost sacred object to him, 
and the manly, true pity he felt for one so deso- 
late. “She’s a most uncomfortable little thing 
to have charge of,” he often thought; “ the fact 
is, I do not know how to manage her or what to 
do with her; I do wish Ellen would come. The 
child can’t grow up like this; and what in the 
world will become of her when I go to Washing- 
ton?” Then he would call her to drive with 
him, or sail with him out towards the bay, when 
her enthusiastic delight in the indescribable 
beauties of nature more than recompensed, for 
the moment, for all the anxious care she gave 
him. 

But one morning about day-dawn there arose 
a great uproar at “Haylands;” there came a 
heavy rumbling up the sinuous gravelled avenue 
as if an earthquake were in progress; the barking 
of watch-dogs, and the prolonged baying of the 
fox-hounds, the shouts of the negroes and the 
shrill notes of a horn, all mingled together in a 
dire confusion of sounds which startled Lucia 
from her sleep and made her spring from her bed 
to the window before her eyes were fairly opened. 
Throwing back the curtains she looked out and 
saw an old-fashioned lumbering stage, loaded 
with trunks, drawn up in front of the house, 
from which a lady and two children emerged, all 
looking frowsy, tired, sleepy, and ill-humored. 
As soon as they were fairly out, the lady began 



ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


I0 5 

in no amiable tones to give directions about the 
baggage, scolded her maid, and threatened to 
report the driver to those who would dismiss and 
punish him — and all about a bandbox which one 
of the obsequious negroes had officiously snatched 
up and run into the verandah with, and which, 
not seeing, she thought had been dropped some- 
where in the road. She was a tall, handsome 
woman, but there was something in her face that 
was far from pleasant — a shrewd, domineering, 
haughty look, but for which she would have 
strikingly resembled her brother — for it was Mrs. 
Yellott, come at last. Lucia’s keen perception 
told her at once who she was; and while, with 
perhaps a prevision which cast a shadow of coming 
events over her soul, the forlorn child scrutinized 
the woman’s face, she, attracted by a possible 
magnetic power, looked up, and their eyes met. 
Holding each other’s glance in sharp encounter, 
they mentally measured each other with that 
instinctive, unreasoning logic so common to the 
female mind, and both felt that they should hate 
each other. Lucia snapped the curtains together, 
and curled herself up in bed full of bitter fancies; 
Mrs. Yellott and her children were conducted to 
her apartments, where, tired and sleepy, they 
sought rest and soon became oblivous of all out- 
ward impressions in the deep slumber that swiftly 
fell upon them; and quiet reigned once more. 

The first news Allen Brooke heard from his 
man who brought in his boots was that “Miss 
Ellen had done come.” 

“ Bless my heart, that’s good news. Where is 
she, Joe? when did she come?” he asked excit- 
edly. 

“Dey’s all ’sleep, Mass’r; an’ dey corned jest 
’bout light,” answered the man. 


106 ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 

“Where’s Chloe?” was the next question. 

“ She’s in de kitchen havin’ chickens picked, 
and breakin’ eggs for warfles, sir !” said Joe with 
a grin; “an’ she’s sot Susan to pickin’ crabs — 
she says she’s gwine to devil some.” 

“She’s going to give my sister a good old- 
fashioned Maryland breakfast,” said Allan 
Brooke good-naturedly, as he drew on his boots. 

“Ki-yi, dat’s zactly what she said, sir, — ‘cos,’ 
.she says, says she, ‘Miss Ellen she’s bin a livin’ 
up thar ’mongst de Yankees whar dey feed on 
’taters an’ red herrin’ year in an’ year out,” an- 
swered Joe, brushing his master’s coat in the 
most scientific way. 

“I’ll have to take you up there some day, Joe, 
and let you see for yourself,” said Allan Brooke, 
knowing how useless it would be to attempt to 
argue against an impression which was so firmly 
fixed in the negro mind of that day in relation 
to the diet of Yankees, whom they held in sov- 
ereign contempt as “poor white folks” because 
they “didn’t own niggers.” 

“Don’t, Mass’r, for God’ssake don’t, sir! I’d 
a heep ruther be sold to Georgy dan to go thar,” 
whined Joe, almost crying with terror. 

“Joe, I’m afraid you don’t tell Father Janni- 
son what a glutton you are — There; that will 
do!” said Allan Brooke, passing a moment be- 
fore the dressing-table to brush his hair — “I 
shall know how to punish you now if any more 
of Chloe’s watermelons are missing — be off with 
you ! ’ ’ 

Breakfast waited long beyond the usual hour 
that morning before the sleepy travellers made 
their appearance — to Chloe’s intense disgust, be- 
cause the delicious cakes she had prepared with 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


107 

such fuss and care got overdone with “sobbin’ 
and stewin’ by de fire to keep hot.” But at last 
Mrs. Yellott, exquisitely but simply dressed in a 
white morning wrapper of India mull trimmed 
with fine lace, and a chic little French cap 
ornamented with pale rose-colored ribbons just 
poised on the top of her puffed and curled hair, 
came in, followed by her two children, who were 
also carefully attired, and with great effusion 
rushed to her brother and embraced him, talking 
rapidly and asking fifty questions before he had 
time to speak. Then he kissed the children, 
and the party drew up around the breakfast- 
table — Mrs. Yellott taking the head, at her 
brother’s request — and while she poured out and 
sweetened the coffee and added the cream to suit 
each one’s taste, she gave him a most amusing 
account of her night journey in the stage, omit- 
ting, however, the little episode at the end of it, 
about the box. They were laughing over her 
misadventures when Lucia, who had gone some 
distance for a walk, came in. Allan Brooke 
held out his hand, and holding hers for a moment 
before she sat down in her accustomed place by 
his side, said: “Lucia, my dear, that lady is my 
sister Bllen of whom you have heard me speak, 
and these are her children, Frank, Mary and 
Louise Yellott. I hope you will be good 
friends.” 

“Oh yes, we will be the best of friends,” said 
Mrs. Yellott, in a silvery voice, which would 
have deceived Lucia had she not heard its capa- 
city for harshness and invective a few hours 
before, when the lady was berating the servants 
in language neither refined nor womanly; “I 
knew your mother, Lucia; we were playmates — 


108 ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 

and I hope you will try and like me.” This 
was a nice little speech, but it got no farther 
than Lucia’s ears; there was wanting in it the 
true ring of genuine feeling, which her sensitive 
perceptions instantly detected, so she only said 
as she sat down: “I will try, ma’am,” and re- 
mained silent. One of Lucia’s glowering moods 
was gathering about her, and she did not look at- 
tractive; her dress hung badly and ill-fitting about 
her; and the black fabric, unrelieved by white 
ruffle or collar or the slightest tint of rose in her 
cheeks or lips, did not conduce to the improve- 
ment of her sallow complexion; while her eyes, 
wide open and with a defiant stare in them when 
she did raise them from her plate, half fright- 
ened the little Yellotts, then made them giggle, 
which she was not slow to see; in another mo- 
ment she pushed back her chair, and ran out of 
the room before her guardian could interpose a 
single kind endeavor to prevent it. An awk- 
ward silence followed, broken presently by Allan 
Brooke, who proposed to the children to go out 
on the lawn and select trees for a swing which 
was to be hung for their amusement, after which 
they were to pick strawberries and go to the 
dairy to eat them with cream. They were en- 
chanted at such fine prospects, and rushed out to 
get their hats and romp on the lawn until thfeir 
uncle was ready. 

“ I can’t tell you how sorry I am that the chil- 
dren laughed, Allan; poor little things, they 
meant no harm,” said Mrs. Yellott, when they 
were left alone together. 

“No, I suppose not; but .Lucia is not accus- 
tomed to the society of children or of strangers, 
and is very sensitive, ’ ’ answered Allan Brooke, 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. IO9 

balancing his spoon upon the edge of his cup; 
“her life has never had much sunshine in it, and 
the loss of her mother has grieved her almost to 
death.” 

“She’s a strange looking child,” observed 
Mrs. Yellott, feeling her way cautiously. 

“Yes; and strangely gifted. She is by nature 
painter, poet and musician, and I fear full of 
idiosyncrasies.” 

“Poor child ! what a nature to go through life 
with ! But she is very plain, and her mother 
was such a beauty ! I’m really afraid Allan, that 
you have got yourself into trouble; for if I have 
any penetration this girl is going to give great 
anxiety to whoever has the management of her,” 
said Mrs. Yellott, in soft, purring tones. 

“It may be as you say,” observed her brother, 
“but we will not, if you please, Ellen, discuss 
such disagreeable contingencies. Eucia is my 
ward, my adopted daughter as it were; and I am 
prepared to accept all the responsibilities of the 
position.” Allan Brooke said this in grave, 
almost stern tones, which had a meaning, as his 
sister well knew. 

“Oh,” she quickly answered, “I did not 
exactly understand what the relations were be- 
tween you. I was not aware that you meant to 
adopt the child ” — 

“Yes; she is now, and will continue to be, as 
my own child,” he said, in that grave, positive 
way of his from which there was no appeal; 
“but not to the hurt of your children, Ellen; 
remember that; and I tell you so frankly, because 
I want no ill-feelings towards the child.” 


no 


zoic’s daughter. 


CHAPTER IX. 
eucia’s vain endeavor. 

“Why, surely, Allan,” began Mrs. Yellott, in 
an injured tone, “you do not suspect — ” 

“I am not a man much given to suspicions, 
Ellen; but then you see I know human nature 
and its weaknesses pretty well, and know that it 
is the most natural thing in the world for people 
to be jealous of the influence of strangers who 
may be thrown in among them, especially where 
inheritance is concerned. Eucia is not alto- 
gether destitute, but she was homeless and friend- 
less, and the orphan of the only woman I ever 
loved; so I have taken her to fill up, in a meas- 
ure, not only a duty to humanity, but the vac- 
uum left in my existence by my unhappy disap- 
pointment. ” 

“I don’t think you owe so much to the mem- 
ory of the woman who deceived you, whatever 
your inclinations may be towards the child. As 
far as I and mine are concerned, there will be no 
interference in whatever plans you may have for 
her!” said Mrs. Yellott, with a fiery snap of her 
fine black eyes, which she quickly veiled by 
looking down at the prismatic glitter of a soli- 
taire on her finger, upon which a ray of sun- 
shine came flickering and dancing through the 
vines. 

“No, I suppose not; I cannot imagine any 
one interfering in plans of mine; no one that I 


Ill 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 

know of has a right to do so; but in our talks do 
not let the ashes of the dead be disturbed; Zoe’s 
niemory is dear to me — is sacred to me — I wish 
it to be remembered! ” he answered, in that low 
undertone, in which was concentrated the force 
and energy of a will unused to contradiction. 

“ Certainly, Allan; certainly, your wishes and 
feelings must be respected. It was thoughtless 
in me to say what I did, but I had no idea — I 
thought time — in fact, I hoped that the old 
wound was closed; and then you know I love 
you so dearly, that it is natural I should still 
hold some little resentment towards the cause — 
well, we won’t speak of it again,” said Mrs. 
Yellott, confusedly. 

“Yes, I suppose it was natural; but we under- 
stand each other now on that point; and I want 
you to be kind to the child, Ellen, for my sake.” 

“I will do what I can for her, Allan; but she 
looks like an impracticable little thing. I never 
saw such eyes in my life — they express nothing 
but defiance; and then her ways are so uncouth 
and unkempt !” 

“Try and make it happy for her here, — that 
is all I ask. She is a strange child; she has one 
of those tangled, problematical characters so diffi- 
cult to unravel or understand; but I fancy that 
your womanly tact and experience may find the 
clue which will make the task I have undertaken 
more easy. But whatever you do must be done 
kindly and patiently. Meanwhile make the 
old house gay; let us have plenty of young 
people, and dancing, and music, and picnics, and 
excursions. You are au fait in all such matters. 
And see here, Ellen! for God’s sake get some 
young-looking clothes for the child; she’s dressed 


112 


zoe’s daughter. 


like an old Methodist I don’t know anything 
about it, but it seems to me that her frocks — is 
that what you call them? — don’t fit her.” 

“No, they don’t fit her,” said Mrs. Yellott, 
amused at the grave man’s perplexity; “you have 
just hit the nail upon the head, Allan; she needs 
companionship, and she needs dressing. But we 
shall have to go to Baltimore to get her rigged 
out properly, — and the change will do her 
good.” 

“Thanks, Ellen, — that is a good suggestion. 
Go to London, if necessary, — anywhere for 
Lucia’s good; I give you carte blanche. Only be 
kind to her; that is the one condition I impose. 
Every one must be kind to Lucia if they wish to 
avoid displeasing me,” he answered, feeling that 
he was being greatly helped out of his difficulties; 
then he lit his cigar and went out to talk over 
plantation affairs with his overseer, who was 
waiting on the veranda for him. 

“Well I must say this is decidedly pleasant, 
to have a Grand Panjandrum set up, whom I and 
my children are expected to worship ! ” said Mrs. 
Yellott, in a bitter tone. “I declare, I think 
she’s the horridest looking child I ever saw in my 
life; and to think of his having adopted her — 
robbing his own flesh and blood of what would 
be theirs by right ! I don’t think I can stand it ! 
But there’s no use contending with Allan; he’s 
as obstinate as a man can be, with a will like 
iron, and I shall have to be very prudent if I 
expect to gain anything; but I feel already that 
I shall hate the ugly little owl.” 

Then the servants came in to remove the break- 
fast things, and she went up to her apartments 
to have her trunks unpacked and direct her maid 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


JI 3 

where to arrange their contents — a work of some 
magnitude, as there were ten trunks. 

Allan Brooke saw that Lucia was not with the 
children and went to the music-room in search 
of her, and found her half buried among the 
cushions of his own chair, pale and glowering. 

“Here you are, little one,” he said pleasantly. 

‘ ‘ I thought I should find you here. How comes 
on the Nocturne?” 

“Not very well; I did not practise much yes- 
terday. Do you wish me to try it, sir?” she said 
without looking up. 

“Well, I have come for you to go with me on 
a little frolic with the children; we are going to 
put up a swing, then we are going to pick straw- 
oerries, and are all invited to the dairy to eat 
them with cream.” 

“If you wish it, I’ll go, sir,” she said. 

“Yes, I think it will do you good; and when 
you are tired of it all, you and I will come back 
to our enchanted palace here, and enjoy the 
Nocturne together,” answered Allan Brooke, as 
holding Lucia’s hand, they went out together 
and joined the little Yellotts on the lawn, and 
watched with a sort of wonder their exuber- 
ant enjoyment as they romped and tumbled and 
scrambled about like so many young kittens over 
the smootly-shaven grass. She knew nothing 
of children, never having been accustomed to 
them — she had lived entirely with grown-up 
people, and her sole and constant companion 
had been, since her earliest recollection, her sor- 
rowful, silent mother; and as she sat apart 
watching them, and heard them shouting and 
screaming at each other as if they were all deaf, 
and saw them tripping each other up, and wrest- 
8 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


114 

ling until they would all fall in a heap together 
shrieking and laughing; when she saw them 
climbing up to her guardian’s broad shoulders, 
and pulling and tugging at his coat-tails, and 
throwing themselves like animated battering- 
rams against him in a futile endeavor to over- 
throw him, she thought they were the rudest 
young animals she had ever seen. But she stood 
it all until they began to pull and haul at her 
hands to get her into one of their romps, after 
Allan Brooke had gone away; then by some dex- 
terous movement she escaped from them, and flew 
into one of the labyrinths of the dense shrubbery, 
eluding all pursuit, and never stopping until she 
reached Chloe’s vine-covered cabin, which the 
master had caused to be built for the faithful old 
servant and given to her with the acre of garden 
land around it in fee forever. Here everything 
was quiet, and Chloe had just come from “the 
Great House” to rest and have a smoke, before 
undertaking the ice creams and “float” she in- 
tended making for dessert that day. Chloe loved 
company and a grand parade and stately ceremo- 
nial when all the silver and cut glass had to be 
brought out, making the table glitter; but chil- 
dren visitors set her wild, particularly Mrs. Yel- 
lott’s, who she declared were so “pizen spiled” 
that it was worse than a fire or flood to have 
them around. Maum Chloe guessed very 
shrewdly the cause of Lucia’s visit, but she had 
the wisdom of serpents, and said nothing; she 
only made much of Lucia’s coming, and made her 
sit down on her chair of state, a rocker covered 
with dimity very much beruffled, which she 
never offered to anybody except “ Mars’ r Allan ” 
when he sometimes dropped in to see how she 
was getting on. 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


1*5 

“Thar, now, rest youself, honey; you look 
dead beat. ’Pears like you been a runnin’. I 
doesn’t like to see little ladies runnin’ an’ tarin’ 
like young foxes; now, when you cools off, I’m 
gwine to get you to read — you know what — he! 
he! he! Lord a’ massy! to think of de sense in 
dat head of his’n!” said Chloe, hauling out an 
old newspaper, smelling sweet of lavender and 
fragrant herbs, from a shallow wooden box, 
which she placed in Lucia’s hands. u Seems to 
me,” she added, U I never hears it harf often 
enough. It’s next to hearin’ Father Jannison 
preach one o’ his hallelujah sermonts.” 

And Lucia, who in her peculiar way was 
much attached to Maum Chloe, was glad to 
oblige her by reading out aloud to her, for the 
fortieth time a newspaper report of Allan 
Brooke’s maiden speech in Congress years ago, 
a speech that the now experienced statesman and 
ripe scholar never thought of without smiling 
at its ambitious rhetoric and hifalutin phrases, 
its scraps of classic poetry, its words fished up 
from the depths of the dictionary, its attempts 
at forensic display and spread-eagle oratory! 
But in Chloe’ s estimation, the wisdom of Solo- 
mon was foolishness to it; it tickled' her ear, it 
mystified and awed her, it convinced her that 
she had cradled on her sable bosom the greatest 
intellect ever created, and she used to weep and 
shake her head while listening to it, as if it had 
been a tragedy or sermon. • When Lucia finished 
the speech, which was nearly incomprehensible 
to her, she refolded the paper, and gave it to 
Chloe, who restored it reverently to its recepta- 
cle, and proceeded to make her toilette for the 
day; and when she was arrayed in her gayly- 


Il6 ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 

sprigged chintz dress, her much-trimmed apron, 
her clock stockings, through the web of which 
the sable of her skin shone darkly, her high- 
heeled shoes, her astonishing turban of genuine 
Madras of the gayest colors, her glittering yellow 
beads from which hung a little silver crucifix, 
the gift of Father Jannison, Chloe was a picture 
to behold, and was looked upon by the planta- 
tion negroes as something unapproachably grand 
and awe-inspiring. Having finished dressing, 
she said, “ Now, little Missy, we better be gwine; 
an’ if you can make friends wid dem young ’uns 
of Miss Ellen’s; it’ll make it peaceabler, I 
reckon. ’ ’ 

“I don’t like them, Maum Chloe; they’re 
horrid and rude,” said Eucia, her eyes flashing. 

“Dey aint got much marnners, dat’s a fact; 
but den, honey, you know Mars’ r Allan’s got to 
be considered, and you must try and git ’long 
wid ’em for his sake.” 

“I’ll try to; but I wish they hadn’t come to 
‘Haylands,’” she said. 

“We got to meet heaps o’ people in de world 
we don’t like, and rnought as well begin fust as 
last,” said Chloe, sententiously. 

Eucia said no more but walked on, thinking 
over the situation. What Maum Chloe said had 
wisdom in it, and gratitude to her guardian de- 
manded some effort and forbearance on her part 
towards his kindred, so she determined to get 
acquainted with the little Yellotts and be kind 
to them if possible. 

That “if possible” was a wise reservation, 
and no efforts towards good are ever altogether 
fruitless, even if they fail of their aim; but 
Eucia’ s heart was growing faint within her at 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


II 7 

her daily failures in carrying out her good inten- 
tions. It cost her a great deal to make the 
endeavor to propitiate Frank Yellott and his 
sisters; she really did violence to all her habits 
and inclinations when she joined them in their 
walks and pla) r , and sought to amuse them indoors 
by telling them marvellous fairy tales improvised 
for the occasion, and showed them all that was 
best worth seeing of her guardian’s treasures; 
and so long as the novelty of having the strange 
little girl with them lasted it was well enough — 
but, superior to them in all respects, they could 
not altogether understand her, and began to feel 
her presence not only irksome, but a restraint. 
Then they began, rather cautiously at first, as 
if feeling their way, to tease and chaff Lucia, 
after the tormenting fashion of children; and as 
they were three against one, she found the odds 
a serious disadvantage and impediment to her 
praiseworthy attempts to make friends with 
them. She feared that her patience would not 
hold out under her daily provocations — and 
being too proud to complain of their rudeness, 
she had to go on fighting her own battles as best 
she might, without having an open outbreak, 
which she determined to avoid if possible. Allan 
Brooke watched from a distance, well pleased, 
but making no comment whatever. Now and 
then he passed his hand kindly over Lucia’s 
head and told her she was “a nice little hostess,” 
which gave her heart and courage to continue 
her thankless task; but he little imagined the 
struggle her proud passionate nature was under- 
going, and laid the flattering unction to his soul 
that the companionship of these children — so 
near her own age — was doing her good. He 


Il8 ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 

never saw the faces they made at her — never 
heard them gibe and make fun of her, call her 
Indian, and talk gibberish to her in ridicule of 
her foreign origin ; he had not the remotest sus- 
picion of their savagery, for they took very good 
care not to indulge in it when there was a possi- 
bility of his seeing or overhearing it. When in 
his presence, they drew on their velvet gloves 
and hid their claws. But one day they went 
just a hair’s breadth too far, and frightened Lucia 
by springing out on her from an unexpected 
corner in a darkened passage with shrill yells, 
making her drop a beautiful and costly vase she 
was taking to the conservatory to get filled, 
which broke into fifty pieces at her feet. Glow- 
ing with sudden fury, all her hot tropical blood 
surging to her head, she flew at them, and— pos- 
sessed, for the time, of unnatural strength — 
held them, laying blindly about their faces and 
necks until, breaking away from her, they ran 
panic-stricken and screaming to their mother, 
with the print of her nails and the marks of her 
fingers upon their cheeks and necks. It had all 
been so sudden, this moral cyclone that the for- 
ces of her nature had suddenly roused into ac- 
tion, , that when Lucia was left alone, and heard 
the howls of her tormentors dying in the distance, 
a great numbness and blindness came over her, 
and she staggered against the wall, where she 
leaned white and trembling — her first thought 
being: “What have I done? I have grieved 
the most holy Virgin ! If my darling mamma 
knows it she is sorrowful and ashamed. And 
Mr. Brooke ! oh, what shall I do? After all his 

goodness, and patience ” Then she made a 

quick and sudden resolve. Her guardian was in 


zoic’s daughter. 1 19 

the library; she had left him there a half hour 
ago; she would go to him and tell him all about 
it herself: no one should tell on her, for she 
never doubted that he would believe every word 
she said. To think was, to Lucia, to act — and 
without a moment’s hesitation she went towards 
the library, staggering and holding on to things 
as she went, and, opening the door, went in. 
When Allan Brooke looked up the child was 
standing white and trembling beside him, look- 
ing so ill and with such a look of her dead 
mother in her face that he involuntarily uttered 
a cry and pushed back his chair as he threw out 
his arm as if to save her from falling. 

“Wliat is the matter, Lucia; are you ill?” he 
asked. 

“No, sir,” she almost whispered; “I have 
been very angry — in a great passion. Frank 
and his sisters frightened me, and made me break 
that vase you brought from Venice. I was go- 
ing to fill it with flowers, and put it on the organ 
against you came.” 

“Sit down, my child; there’s no need to be so 
distressed about the vase; I did not value it very 
highly. vSit down; your poor little heart is going 
at a dreadful rate.” 

“I’d rather stand, sir, please. That is not all. 
I believe — I believe I beat them,” she gasped. 

“Who? my sister’s children? Oh, Lucia!” 

“I was in a great passion, and I’m not sorry, 
for they’re wicked, cruel children,” she sobbed. 
“I am so miserable! I want to go away, Mr. 
Brooke. I won’t stay where they are; they 
make faces at me and mock and torment me all 
the time, and I have tried so hard to be good to 
them. Indeed, I am telling you the truth, Mr. 
Brooke. ’ ’ 


120 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


“I am sure of that, Lucia,” said Allan 
Brooke, feeling much disturbed, and speaking 
gravely; “but you did wrong to strike the chil- 
dren.” 

“I could not help it, sir.” 

“ Lucia, my child, go up to your room and re- 
main there until I send for you. I will investi- 
gate this affair, and if my sister’s children are 
in fault they must be punished,” said Allan 
Brooke, as he got up and pulled the bell-cord. 

“Send Chloe tome,” was his brief order when 
the servant answered the bell. But before Chloe 
came, Mrs. Yellott rushed into the library in a 
state of such angry excitement that she could 
hardly articulate. 

“Sit down, Ellen, and try and calm your- 
self, ’’said Allan Brooke, sorely disturbed. “You 
know I can’t endure fuss of any kind, and we 
might as well go over this affair as quietly as we 
can. ’ ’ 

“It’s easy to talk of being quiet, but it is im- 
possible just now. My children have been 
cruelly treated by that dreadful girl; their faces 
are scratched, and Frank’s eye is swollen up as 
big as my fist! I have come to tell you that I 
shall have to go away; nothing would induce 
me to stay in the house with such an evil, wicked 
being,” exclaimed Mrs. Yellott, 'speaking rapidly. 

“’Taint all her fault, Mass’r Allan,” burst 
out Chloe, who had come in just behind Mrs. 
Yellott, and had heard the whole story from 
Lucia; “ I tell you, Miss Ellen, your children’s 
as much to blame as little Missy ; dey have treated 
her dretful ! I seen dat wid my own eyes. Day 
in an’ day out, dey did everything dat could be 
thought of to aggrawate her an’ worry her, till I 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 1 21 

thought sometimes she’d pitch into ’em, an’ 
give ’em jessee — but she didn’t — she ’haved her- 
self like a born lady till to-day, and I s’ pose dey 
was a little too much for her.” 

“Hold your tongue, Maum’ Chloe, until you 
are spoken to,” exclaimed Mrs. Yellott, angrily; 
“you forget yourself. ’ ’ 

“No, I doesn’t nuther, Miss Ellen. I never 
forgets dat I nussed you at my breast, honey, and 
it ’ud be natur for me to stand up for you an’ 
yourn thro’ thick an’ thin when I can do it 
without lyin’; dat I won’t do for any livin’ 
human. But I can’t stand up for dem children, 
’case I been watchin’ of ’em and how dey treated 
dat poor desolate little gal dat was doin’ her 
best, agi7i her natur , to make ’em have a good 
time,” said Chloe, nothing daunted. 

Allan Brooke felt convinced in his own mind 
that Chloe’s statement, which corresponded so 
exactly with what Lucia had told, was correct; 
but he did not say it in so many words; he only 
said “That will do, Chloe; you can go now; 
Mrs. Yellott and I will talk the matter over and 
see what is best to be done;” and Maum Chloe 
sailed out, feeling in her very bones that the 
master would deal justly and kindly with the 
young offenders all round. “Only,” she mut- 
tered, “I’d like to give dat boy and dem two 
gals one good trouncin’ dat dey’d ’member to 
dar dyin’ day! ’Taint like it used to be; dey 
spars de rod and spiles de chile nowadays, den 
wonders what’s de matter! Pshaw!” 

The conference was quite a long one between 
Allan Brooke and his sister; and, however it 
was, she came to the conclusion that it was her 
best policy not to take too high a stand with 


122 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


him; then she conceded little by little that her 
“children were sometimes rude; that they were 
thoughtless and full of high spirits, and might 
have teased Lucia more than they should have 
done, and finally ended by offering to overlook 
her violence towards them and give them orders 
to behave better in future.” 

“I know nothing about children, but I sup- 
pose the spirit of tormenting is natural to them; 
it seems to me, however, to be a most hurtful 
and injudicious thing for them to be unrestrained 
in their passion for giving pain solely for the 
sake of amusing themselves; it has a tendency 
to make them selfish, cruel, and domineering. 
You talk to Frank and the girls, Ellen, about it, 
and I will speak to Lucia this afternoon, 'when 
we get to ‘ Buckrae ’ and we are quite alone. 
Then, after the storm is allayed, my dear,” said 
Allan Brooke, well pleased to find his sister 
grown reasonable, “we must have a dancing 
party for the children — or something, I don’t 
care what, so it amuses and keeps them out of 
mischief.” 

Lucia did not appear at tea that evening. No 
one ever knew what passed between her guar- 
dian and herself ; but Mauin Cliloe, who was on 
the watch, saw that a calm, peaceful expression 
rested upon her face when she came in, and knew 
by the sign that her heart was no longer in a 
wild fever of angry emotion. 

The next morning Lucia came in to breakfast 
a few minutes after the family had assembled 
around the table, but instead of going to her 
place, she walked up to Mrs. Yellott, and with 
her great, wild eyes unflinchingly fixed on the 
face of the astonished woman, said : 

“I could not help it, ma’am, what I did yes- 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


123 

terday, and I am sorry that I got in such a dread- 
ful passion. I will try not to do so again.” 

Mrs. Yellott gave a little laugh, and drawing 
Lucia to heir, kissed her ; she knew that was the 
proper thing to do; then she made Frank ask 
pardon for himself and sisters for their rudeness 
to her, and peace seemed to be restored. When 
Lucia went to her chair, her guardian held out 
his hand, and, pressing hers, held it until she sat 
down, signing his approval, by this little act, of 
ascend that was to him entirely unlooked for, and 
which gave him a new insight into the character 
of his ward. 

Then Mrs. Yellott, after the first surprise, be- 
gan to analyze Lucia’s little speech. “ She did 
not say,” though she, ‘‘that she was sorry for 
what she did to the children; she made no hum- 
ble concession as to her being in fault herself, 
and asked nobody’s pardon; in fact, her first 
words proved that she had considered herself 
driven to make the assault, and left the blame 
on my poor darlings; her next was an open ac- 
knowledgment that she had got into a dreadful 
passion, for which she was sorry; then came a 
voluntary promise to try not to do so again.” 
All this was nothing to Mrs. Yellott, who would 
like to have seen Lucia eating humble pie; she 
would have liked to forgive her and patronize 
her, but the child’s simple straight-forwardness 
and the evident sacrifice she had made to princi- 
ple and duty precluded this, and irritated her 
beyond measure. “The proud little minx!” 
she muttered, when thinking over it all for the 
hundredth time that day; “a time of reckoning 
will come between us yet; but I must bear a 
great deahin silence now, for the interests of my 
children. I hate the very sight of her.” 


124 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER X. 

“esse quam videri.” 

The children’s ball, or fete champetre , as Mrs. 
Yellott preferred calling it, now fully decided on, 
was a most politic idea, and showed no little de- 
gree of sagacity in Allan Brooke’s estimate of 
womankind. He knew that the preparations for 
it would so engross his sister’s mind that she 
would have no time to brood over what had just 
passed between Lucia and her children, nor have 
many opportunities to snub her. In fact, she set 
about her task energetically: she had to make 
out a list of those who were to be invited, a del- 
icate and difficult thing to do always, particu- 
larly in a provincial neighborhood; she had to 
write numerous orders and directions to be sent 
to Baltimore for French confectionery and other 
luxuries which by no possibility could be ob- 
tained nearer home; she had to drill the servants, 
devise novelties, plan, and think, until she was 
half wild with excitement herself, and the entire 
household in a state of tumult and confusion. 
But she was in her true element; she not only 
had fine taste in such matters, but really great 
executive abililty to carry out her plans when 
formed. Besides this, she had the faculty of 
attending to everything at once, and of drawing 
every one within range of her influence into her 
fussy preparations, getting them up to their eyes 
in business before they knew where they were. 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


125 


Allan Brooke’s chief aim in giving the ball 
was Lucia’s happiness; he wished her to meet 
the young people of the neighborhood, and have 
her thoughts turned into channels which would 
divert them entirely from the old brooding mem- 
ories; but he wisely kept his intentions to him- 
self, and Mrs. Yellott did not suspect them, for 
Lucia was as yet a subordinate idea in all her 
plans, not to be much considered except when 
she was more than usually disagreeable, and 
on such occasions scarcely able to restrain the 
savage instincts of her nature ; then her only desire 
was to slap her face until it was black and blue, 
feeling that such a form of chastisement was the 
only one that would satify her and sufficiently 
degrade Lucia. And the necessity of strangling 
and keeping down such cruel desires only inten- 
sified the venom of which they were born. How- 
ever, the pleasant excitement and constant occu- 
pation afforded by the coming fete gave her, as 
we before remarked, but little time to torment 
herself about Lucia, and she plunged energetic- 
ally into her plans, determined that it should 
outvie anything ever seen before in this part of 
the country, and that her children should have 
the best time they had ever had in their lives. 

Lucia slipped off every morning or evening to 
Buckrae to make beautiful with flowers the 
mound above her mother’s grave; her guardian 
telling her to ask for the yacht whenever she 
wished, and to go alone whenever she felt so 
disposed. Sometimes he went with her, but he 
had of late discontinued going altogether, fearing 
that his presence possibly imposed a restraint 
upon her. 

These were happy hours to Lucia, when alone 


126 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


with her dead, no one near to observe or criticise 
her — not a sound except the flitting and war- 
bling of the birds and the soft rustling of the 
leaves to break the silence, and the air full of 
tender memories which gathered around her like 
soft embraces. It seemed like home, for here 
she could cry her fill with no one at hand to 
chide either coldly or kindly; here she could 
sing the beautiful hymns and anthems she had 
learned in her new home, with a feeling that 
somehow and somewhere near her mother list- 
ened; and here, when light of heart, she some- 
times trilled the little songs they used to sing 
together, ever feeling her near. It was freedom, 
solace and peace to the strange child to be there 
alone; and her guardian saw that she always re- 
turned with a brighter and more peaceful expres- 
sion in her face than when she went. Then a 
standing order was issued that the yacht was to 
be at her disposal whenever she wanted it, and 
he told he;- to order it without even consulting 
him about it. 

“Are you going over to-day, Lucia?” he asked 
one morning, after a long practice with her of 
one of Beethoven’s grand sonatas. 

“If you please, Mr. Brooke — that is, if you do 
not want the yacht.” 

“No, I do not want it; but, if you don’t mind, 
little one, will you go to St. Inigoes? — we must 
try and persuade Father Jaunison to come to our 
party. I have written to ask him, if you will 
take the invitation.” 

“That is lovely!” exclaimed Lucia, with one 
of her rare merry laughs; “I will go, Mr. 
Brooke, and won’t come away until he pro- 
mises — ” 


127 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 

“Allan! oh, dear me! Allan, I never saw such 
dark rooms as yon keep!” cried Mrs. Yellott, 
bursting in, stumbling over footstools and scrap- 
ing herself against the angles of tables and mus- 
ical instruments. 

“It seems light enough to me, Ellen; but 
stand still until I throw open this shutter,” he 
said, kindly. 

“Never mind — my eyes are used to it now; 
the fact is I came out of such a glare that I am 
nearly blinded,” said Mrs. Yellott, throwing 
herself among the cushions of a deep, luxurious 
chair, while she fanned herself violently with her 
hat. “It is excessively hot, and I am in such a 
worry. ’ ’ 

“Worry! what is the use of that? Keep cool, 
child, and don’t try to do everything at once,” 
answered her brother, amused at her flurry. 

“That is what men always say! but you know, 
Allan, that people can’t dance to the music of 
organs, and I wouldn’t give a snap fora piano 
to dance by,” she exclaimed petulantly. 

“Well, no. I never saw but one dance to 
organ music; but it was certainly the loveliest 
spectacle I ever beheld!” 

“What nonsense you are talking, Allan! but 
let me hear about it; perhaps we might arrange 
something of the sort here, and the novelty of 
the thing would make it charming,” she replied 
eagerly. 

“I fear that it would be impossible here,” 
said Allan Brooke, with a quiet smile. “The 
dance I refer to took place in the grand cathe- 
dral at Seville, on the Feast of Corpus Christi . 
I happened to be there at the time, and was 
kneeling at no great distance from the grand 


128 . 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


altar, expecting nothing more than the usual 
- solemnities, when I saw a procession of children 
enter from a lateral chapel, who were arrayed as 
if for presentation at court, in rich silks, costly 
old yellow laces and sparkling jewels, each one 
crowned with lilies and roses, and altogether 
magnificent in honor of their L,ord and King 
whom they had come to adore. And now I 
observed that they moved in slow and graceful 
rhythm to the sacred melodies of the organ and 
an orchestra of stringed instruments, and ranged 
themselves in couples in a semi-circle before the 
grand altar, then knelt. The archbishop and 
his attendants, all arrayed in magnificent vest- 
ments literally incrusted with gold and precious 
stones, now came in and ascended the altar, 
which blazed with hundreds of waxlights; the 
tabernacle was opened and the Sacred Host de- 
posited by the hands of the archbishop in the 
great gold ostensorium and elevated for the 
adoration of the faithful, who all bowed rev- 
erently and humbly before the solemn Presence. 
This over, the music swelled out in louder sym- 
phonies; and the children, now standing, joined 
their hands and formed a figure that was star- 
shaped, and began their sacred dance before the 
Blessed Sacrament, moving in and out, clasping 
and unclasping hands, changing the figures into 
harmonious combinations while they scattered 
the garlands of lilies and roses that crowned 
them at the foot of the altar, covering the tapes- 
tried steps deep with bloom and fragrance, until 
it seemed to me that each note of the music that 
reverberated and soared in such divine strains 
throughout the lofty domes and arches of the 
cathedral was represented by a living soul, and 


ZOID’S DAUGHTER. 


129 


that each soul, as it moved to harmonious num- 
bers, a living tangible presence, adored the Lord 
in His earthly tabernacle.” 

“We can’t do that,” said Mrs. Yellott, with 
a sigh. “What we want is a fiddler.” 

Lucia had listened to her guardian’s descrip- 
tion of the sacred dance with kindling eyes and 
glowing cheeks; she longed to hear more and 
ask a thousand questions — but he burst out 
laughing at Mrs. Yellott’ s absurd remark, and 
told her he “thought she’d have no difficulty in 
finding one.” 

“I thought so too, Allan; I’ve got two good 
banjo-players, two tambourines, but only one 
fiddle, and must have two; I can’t do with less, 
and never dreamed of any difficulty until word 
came just now that Dave had sprained his wrist 
wrestling for a wager ! Think of that now ! I 
went right off to ‘the quarters’ to see for my- 
self, and it was so, sure enough ; his wrist and 
hand are swelled up nearly as big as his head, 
and heaven only knows when it will ever be 
well. ’ ’ 

“Has the doctor seen his hand?” asked the 
master. 

“I declare I don’t know; I was so worried I 
did not ask.” 

‘ ‘ That must be attended to at once, ’ ’ said 
Allan Brooke, pulling the bell-cord. 

“Upon my word, Allan, you spoil your 
negroes beyond everything. The doctor, in- 
deed ! Why, they know how to doctor them- 
selves with herbs and things, and what’s the 
use of going to the expense of a doctor?” 

“Dave must be taken care of. You know I 
am opposed to slavery; I hold it to be a 
9 


130 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


heathenish, cruel institution, but it has pleased 
Providence to make me a slave-owner, and I feel 
morally and religiously responsible for their wel- 
fare. Joe,” he said to the man who answered 
the bell, “send one of the boys on horseback to 
ask Dr. Beans please to ride up to look at Dave’s 
wrist. ’ ’ 

“Yes sah ! ” answered Joe, and disappeared. 

“Allan, what am I to do about a fiddler ? All 
my plans will be ruined if I can’t get a fiddler,” 
asked Mrs. Yellott, in a fever of impatience. 

“ I know one,” said Lucia to her guardian. 

“Where? I’ll go right after him, if you’ll 
tell me where he’s to be found,” said Mrs. 
Yellott, brightening up. 

“It is Jupe,” answered Lucia, but still speak- 
ing to Allan Brooke; “he plays most beautiful 
dance-music. I heard my mamma say that he 
used to be famous once; and I know that he 
plays well, for he played for me many a time.” 

“He may, — but you’re not a judge; anyhow 
I’ll see him. I remember him now perfectly, 
Allan, — one of the Buckrae negroes. Good 
gracious ! I thought he was dead long ago; he 
was an old man when I was a girl. Can you 
send me across the river, Allan?” 

“Lucia is just going to Buckrae, I believe.” 

“Oh, well, that will do ! I’ll take the chil- 
dren, poor little things! they’ll enjoy it so 
much.” 

“But Lucia generally goes there alone, Ellen, 
and she can see Jupe for you,” observed her 
brother, with a significant look, by which she 
understood she was not to press the matter. 

“Oh, well ! I have quite enough to do; if 
Lucia will be good enough to fetch Jupe over to 


zoe’s daughter. 


* 3 * 

see me, I shall be glad to be let off,” she an- 
swered, while her eyes enfttted little sparkles of 
anger. 

u If he is there I will tell him to come; he has 
a boat of his own, and maybe he can come right 
off. I have to go to St. Inigoes, and shall not be 
back for some time,” replied Lucia. 

“That will do,” said Mrs. Yellott, coldly. 
“ I don’t care how he gets here, so he comes in 
time. Will you be good enough to take a mes- 
sage to Father Jannison for me?” 

“Certainly, ma’am,” said Lucia, quietly. 

‘ ‘ Please tell him that I and the children will 
be over on Saturday to see him. I want to go to 
confession, you know, Allan, and I can kill two 
birds with one stone, — pay him a visit and at- 
tend to my religious duties at once,” said Miss 
Yellott, laughing. 

“I will tell him,” answered Lucia, rising to go. 

“Just stop one moment, please. I thought 
there was something,” said the indefatigable 
woman; “ have you no party dresses or anything 
light and pretty, Lucia, that will do to wear to 
the party?” 

“No, ma’am. I never went to a party in my 
life.” 

“Well, but have you not some pretty embroid- 
eries and pinas and things in that great trunk 
up-stairs, that could be made over for you? 
Maum Chloe says you have lots.” 

“I do not know what is in that trunk. I 
have never opened it,” answered Lucia, with a 
quivering lip. 

“You must have a party dress, and there’s no 
time to lose; so if you don’t mind, and will let 
me have the keys, I’ll look over the things and 
select something suitable.” 


132 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


“ Pardon me, ma’am — will not to-morrow 
do?” said the poor child, shrinking involuntar- 
ily farther from her, and speaking low. “That 
was my mother’s trunk.” 

“Oh, as you like,” answered Mrs. Yellott, 
with a little toss of her head; “I only wished to 
serve you. I have no desire to rummage your 
trunks through idle curiosity.” 

Allan Brooke knew how much the sensitive 
child must be pained at all this; He could say 
nothing — he only bit his lips — and taking up his 
hat, said: “I believe the yacht is waiting;, Lucia, 
and you ought to make much of the fair wind. 
Run and get your hat and mantle. Don’t tease 
her about things, Ellen,” he added, as Lucia, 
glad to escape, ran out of the room; “she is very 
sensitive, and the least allusion to her mother 
hurts her. I saw her shrink when you proposed 
opening that trunk. I suppose her mother’s 
clothes are in it. ” 

“I’ m sure I was not aware she was so touchy. 
I suppose it’s her Spanish blood,” replied Mrs. 
Yellott. “It is extremely disagreeable to be 
always on the Ps and Qs with a child! But you 
know, Allan, she cannot appear at the party, 
looking like a fright; it would reflect upon us*.” 

“No; that is undesirable. I wish Lucia to be 
well-dressed, of course. But I don’t know how 
to help you over the difficulty. She’s a strange 
child, and it certainly requires great tact and 
great kindness to manage her; we must not push 
her in any way; I won’t have her pushed, even 
about the dress. Let us wait and see what to- 
morrow will bring forth; I dare say it will all be 
right — but here she is,” said Allan Brooke, as 
Lucia stood in the doorway, waiting to start. 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 1 33 

“Don’t forget to see Uncle Jnpe.” called Mrs. 
Yellott, as the two walked away together. “ ‘All 
right,’ indeed!” she said, in bitter accents; “it 
seems all wrong, more like, to me. It is plain 
to see that this stranger is paramount here. 
Everything is deferred to her whims; and this, 
that, and the other can’t be done because it is 
disagreeable to her yellow ladyship. It makes 
everything feel strange to me here at ‘ Haylands, ’ 
and the way she has bewitched my brother and 
even Maum Chloe, beats everything! I bate the 
little snake!” 

It may be asked, “Was Mrs. Yellott a Cath- 
olic?” Yes; she was a very regular Catholic. 
She never missed Mass on Sundays and holidays 
of obligation, and made it a practice to approach 
the Sacraments of Penance and Holy Commun- 
ion at stated times and seasons. She was a 
great formalist, and kept severely within the 
letter of the law, but we are constrained to say 
that her selfish and egotistical nature derived 
but small profit from the spirit thereof. There 
was nothing wanting in the Sacraments — as 
there was nothing wanting in Christ that Judas 
became what he was; nor was anything want- 
ing in the Church, that she, one of its mem- 
bers, seemed alive, but was dead. She was one 
of the “earth earthy,” and like many others 
thought that a strict attention to, or observance 
of exterior duties, covered a multitude of short- 
comings, and exempted her from that warfare 
with herself which all souls who earnestly de- 
sire salvation must engage in, but which the 
very contemplation of made her uncomfortable. 
She thought it no harm to listen to floating gos- 
sip, or particular slander — no matter if reputa- 


*34 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


tions and fair names were dartiaged and tainted 
by the recital; she felt a secret satisfaction in 
hearing of the downfall and misfortunes of peo- 
ple, and did not scruple speaking of the faults 
of her best friends — but not in an unchristian or 
unladylike manner, believe me: all this unchar- 
itableness was salved and plentifully beplastered 
with “Oh, it was such a pity!” and “I feel the 
deepest sympathy; but then ” — et cczterci — and 
“I am truly sorry it got out; but did you hear 
the worst?” — and “ifs” and “buts” which, in- 
stead of palliating the story, whatever it might 
be, in the least, intensified its malice. And this 
lady, who belonged to several charitable associ- 
ations, could drive hard bargains with the poor; 
she understood the science of getting the very 
utmost out of people; and when she did give to 
the poor, it was of something filched from them. 
She prided herself on her worldly wisdom, and 
her ability to take care, first, of her own inter- 
ests, not caring what became of the surplus; or 
whether, if there was any surplus left — But 
we will not further analyze Mrs. Yellott’s char- 
acter; unfortunately, there are many of her 
kind, who, noways different in their works from 
the world around them, make people wonder if 
the Sacraments have lost the power of rehabil- 
itating the soul with all the newness of a life of 
grace, and stand a stumbling-block and impedi- 
ment to more sincere and timid Christians. 
These are the sort of Catholics who see the mote 
in their neighbor’s eye, not discerning the beam 
that is in their own; who are ever taking scan- 
dal at the omissions of others whose interior 
lives are sealed books to them; who wear the 
guise of piety while their every act savors of the 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


T 35 


world, the flesh, and the devil. Men outside the 
fold, when they see devotees of fashion, slander- 
ers, wine-bibbers, and those who hold their good 
name lightly, Catholics who by ways “dark 
and devious,” heap up riches, approach the 
august and divine Sacraments, and measure 
their daily lives by their profession of divine 
principles and the helps they have, turn away 
with a sneer, thinking religion — if such as these 
are religious — not worth the trouble of inquiring 
into, a hollow mockery and a cheat It is such 
Christians as these, who come naturally in close 
contact with the world, who mix with it, and 
invite its contempt for themselves and the faith 
they profess — and cause it to turn away its eyes 
from those whose lives, holy and humble and 
pure, illustrate the true spirit of a true Church; 
hiding from it the beauty of holiness by the in- 
terposition of their own evil example and the 
glare of a false piety. 

But let us return to Lucia, who having had a 
swiff sail across the river, went straight up to 
Jupe’s cabin, and for a wonder found him at 
home. He was mending his nets, crooning out 
an old ditty in quavering tones, while Bruce, 
now far advanced in his dotage, basked on the 
hearth, as close to the raked up embers as he 
could get without burning himself. The old 
negro lifted his head quickly as Lucia’s shadow 
fell upon him, and when he saw her standing in 
the doorway his face lit up with a grotesque and 
delighted expression; he extinguished his pipe, 
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then 
wiped his hand on his old patched breeches, and 
pushing aside his work with his feet he bobbed 
his head, and, while he chuckled almost to the 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


136 

verge of suffocation, held out his black knobby 
old hand to welcome her. Lucia laughed, — she 
always laughed at Jupe, who liked being laughed 
at by her, — and shook hands with him. 

“No, I can’t stay a minute, Uncle Jupe,” she 
said as he wiped off a bench for her to set down; 
“I just ran up here to tell you that you are 
wanted at ‘Haylands’ as soon as ever you can 
paddle across. Mrs. Yellott wants you.” 

“ Dat’s Miss Nelly. Jest like her. An’ whose 
gwine to catch oysters for me while I’se losin’ 
time over dar? I say little Missis-, what do she 
want? for I dunno as I can spar de time,” said 
Jupe, who, like the generality of his class, en- 
joyed being coaxed and making much of what 
they did. 

“There’s to be a great dance at ‘Haylands,’ 
Uncle Jupe, — a party for children, — and Dave 
the fiddler has sprained his wrist, and they want 
you to play the fiddle in his place,” said Lucia. 

“Yah ! yah ! yah ! How do Miss Nelly know 
my wrist aint sprained too? Lord, chile, I’se too 
old for such junketin’ s. I can’t play now fittin’ 
to be heerd; why, honey, dey’s jest larf at my 
scrapin’. Once upon a time I’d a drawed my 
bow agin any nigger in Maryland,” said Jupe, 
flourishing his hands and trying to look modest, 
his delight beaming out, however, in every 
wrinkle of his dusky face. 

“Oh, Uncle Jupe, you can play, — I know; I’ve 
heard you play, and danced to your playing, — 
you know I have. You play dance music splen- 
didly ! Please go, — won’t you?” 

“I’ll see if I can manage it,” he replied, shak- 
ing his head dubiously. 

“And Ml. Brooke wants you to come — and if 


ZOlj’S DAUGHTER. 


137 


you don’t it will spoil all the children’s fun. 
Now I’m going; let your old nets and things 
wait, and be off,” said Lucia in that pretty, per- 
emptory way, which the old negro liked the best 
of all. 

“ I’ll go jest to please you, honey,” he said, 
inwardly delighted, not only at the prospect of 
the good time ahead, but at the honor of being 
invited to scrape his bow once more before the 
“quality,” to the tunes of “Malbrouke, ” “Rob 
o’ the Bowl,” “Drunken Sailor,” and other 
fashionable dancing music of the day. “I’ll go, 
but it’ll ’bout ruin me. I promised to fotch a 
load of oysters to a man from Georgetown what’s 
got his wessel at our landin’ a-waitin’.” 

“You’ll have time for that, Uncle Jupe; the 
party is not to be until next week, and to-day is 
only Tuesday. Good-bye, and hurry over to 
‘Haylands. ’ ” 

When Lucia got back to “Haylands” they 
were all at lunch in the dining-room, so she only 
stopped at the dooi^tolnquire if Jupe had been 
over, and on hearing- that he had, and was en- 
gaged for the important evening, she told her 
guardian that Father Jannison sent “his love to 
everybody, and wouldn’t miss coming to the fete 
on any account, — only he must not be invited 
to dance, as he had forgotten how.” Every one 
laughed except Mrs. Yellott, who remarked: “I 
do not like such levity in a priest.” 

Having delivered her message, Lucia ran up- 
stairs to lay off her things and have a private 
conference with Maum Chloe before she went 
back to her cabin, which she usually did about 
noon. Throwing her hat and mantle on the bed, 
she stepped into the room where Chloe usually 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


138 

spent several hours each day, mending and darn- 
ing and inspecting the house-linen and wearing 
apparel; but she was *not there, and Lucia made 
a tour of the bed-rooms hoping she was in some 
of them, and thought she would run down and 
get some luncheon, then go to Maum Chloe’ s 
cabin and tell her what she wanted. But on 
passing the door of her guardian’s room it was 
suddenly opened by Maum Chloe herself, who 
had been taking up fresh muslin curtains to the 
windows, hanging a mosquito net over his bed, 
and putting things generally to rights, — and not 
wishing to be called off, as she was sure to have 
been at least fifty times by Mrs. Yellott, she had 
locked herself in and had been deaf to all rap- 
pings and calls and other demands for admit- 
tance. 

u I’m so glad you’re here, maummy. I’ve 
been looking everywhere for you!” exclaimed 
Lucia. 

“Come in here, chile, and set down. Does 
you want anything?” said Chloe, shutting the 
door after Lucia came in. “I thought you was 
over yander.” 

“I’ve just come back, and I ran up here to 
look for you, while they are all at luncheon, to 
speak to you about something,” said Lucia, 
flushed and flurried. 

“Yes, honey; what is it? 

“Well, you know, they — that is Mrs. Yellott — 
she wanted to hunt through that big trunk — you 
know — for something to make me a party dress, 
but I told her I would look; so I want you to 
come with me to unlock it, and take the things 
out,” said Lucia, with almost breathless eager- 
ness. 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 1 39 

“Dat’s right,” answered Chloe, nodding her 
head approvingly; “Miss Ellen’s so pry in’ ; she 
always was. But don’t say nothin’ ’bout it. ’till 
dey all goes ridin’ dis arternoon; den we’ll see 
what we can find, my pretty.” 

“That will do very nice; but what a funny 
old book this is, Maummy Chloe!” said Lucia, 
resting her hand on a great thick clumsy vol- 
ume, covered with green baize which was both 
faded and tattered, that lay upon an old-fash- 
ioned table that stood in a corner of the room. 

“Dat’s de Word of God, honey; it b’ longed 
to my ole Missis, Mars’ r Allan’s mother, and it 
was her father’s before her, and theirn afore him; 
and it’s got all de births and deaths and mar- 
riages for ginerations writ down in it; and it’s 
full of de beautifullest picters! Mars’r Allan he 
sets a heap of store by it, and he often shows ’em 
to me and tells me ’bout ’em. But run down 
now, chile, an’ get some snack — you must be 
hongry; but stop a minnit, and let me bresh 
back your hair and tie a piece of black velvet 
round your head to keep it smooth. Mars’r Al- 
lan he’s mighty pertic’ler, aud likes to see every- 
body lookin’ deir best.” 

“Does he? Well, you may. But will you let 
me look at the pictures some day?” 

“’Deed will I, an’ be glad of de chance,” said 
Chloe with alacrity, as they went along the hall 
to Lucia’s room. 

“Don’t tie it tight; I won’t have it tied tight; 
and oh, maummy, you have taken the skin off 
my head brushing so hard,” complained Lucia, 
whose hair had always flowed almost unkempt, 
and never bound up either in fillet or net. 

“Laws, honey, I never did see such a change 


140 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


as a little Axin’ makes in you, — dey won’t know 
you downstars!” said Chloe, surveying Lucia’s 
improved appearance with delight, and stopping 
her to make another loop in the bow she had tied 
at the side of her head. 

“I don’t like it; it chokes my head, and feels 
so fussy against my cheek, — but I’ll let it stay, 
if you like it, maumtny.” 

“ Dat’s a pretty, now. Mars’s Allan’ 11 be de- 
lighted, — run along down now.” 

That u Mars’ r Allan” would be pleased quite 
settled the matter with Lucia, and the velvet, bow 
and all, was allowed to remain; and when she 
went into the dining-room, her cheeks flushed 
and her eyes bright, her kind guardian surveyed 
her with a pleased and surprised look, without 
knowing what had made such a change in her 
appearance, and thought, “She is not such a 
fright after all.” 

That afternoon, with many a heart-ache, Lucia 
examined her mother’s trunk, the one indicated 
by Mrs. Yellott as being likely to contain the 
most precious of poor Zoe’s costly wardrobe. 
Underneath the garments which she remembered 
she had seen her mother wear sometimes in Cuba, 
there were rich and elegant dresses of silk, lace, 
and rare embroideries, as fresh and crisp as when 
first bought in Paris years before; and under 
these was a pile of beautiful gauzy fabrics which 
had never been made up — blue, peach -blossom 
color, white, and canary colored, with satin stripes 
of flowers and arabesque designs running through 
them, each stripe deeply edged with gold threads. 
Lucia shook her head, as Chloe held up each 
pattern in an ecstacy of admiration at its beauty. 

“I will not take off my black to please anybody. 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


141 

Put them all back, maummy. I will stay in my 
room, — and I’d rather do that after all,” said 
Lucia, with a gloomy look, as she turned away. 

‘‘Here, stop, honey! here’s somethin’ that’ll 
jest do !” exclaimed Chloe, as she held up a white 
pena with a column pattern of black, edged with 
gold, running through it. “It was in de very 
bottom of de trunk.” 

“ Yes, that may do; put the rest away, maum- 
my,” said the child, with a sigh that sounded 
like a sob; then throwing the dress-pattern over 
her arm, she ran down to her own room and 
locked herself in to have a good cry to herself. 
But Maum Chloe remained, — she wanted to find 
a fan and sash ribbons to make Lucia’s outfit 
complete. In one compartment or rather drawer 
of the trunk she found a collection of beautiful 
French fans — fragile, glittering things, bought 
by Zoe in the days of her splendid misery; also a 
sash of broad white gros grain ribbon with a 
vine of black and gold running through the cen- 
tre; and still rummaging, she discovered a case 
of delicately-scented fine lace handkerchiefs; and 
elsewhere, in a box by themselves, flowers of 
every hue and shade. She selected a mother- 
of-pearl and lace fan, one of the handsome hand- 
kerchiefs, and the black and white sash, leaving 
the flowers behind with a sigh — refolded the 
things with scrupulous nicety, and reverently 
locked the trunk, which to her uncultivated 
imagination held the most untold treasures. 

“The little sneak!” said Mrs. Yellott the 
next day, after examining the beautiful dress 
and the other articles, and coveting them a 
thousand times. “It’s a shame to cut up such 
a splendid thing into a dress for such a little 


142 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


fright; she’ll never look anything less than a 
fright, no matter what she puts on. And this 
splendid handkerchief, — it is real pointe a’ Alen- 
qon; I wonder how many more of them are in 
that trunk; I must ask Chloe. ” 

But Lucia? happily, neither heard nor cared. 
She had promised to look for something suitable 
to wear, and she had done so; but had she not 
thought it would please her guardian to appear 
at the fete and be prettily dressed, she would 
have gone to Buckrae and remained until it was 
over, let who might have objected. In her 
music dreams at the organ or piano, in her visits 
to her mother’s grave, in her long, solitary 
walks — for she avoided the children, and kept 
out of the house as much as possible — she forgot 
all about the dress, and but seldom thought of 
the painful necessity of being present at the fete . 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


I 43 


CHAPTER XI. 

WHO DID IT? 

It was not in Lucia’s nature to show any pre- 
tension of friendliness 'to the Yellotts — mother or 
children; but she did sometimes join in their 
plays, until they grew rude and noisy, when she 
would slip away, every nerve jarring and her 
head dizzy from the uproar. And they stood in 
wholesome dread of her now, not knowing but 
that she might fly at them again, a fact which, if 
it did not improve their morals, did their man- 
ners. They took good care that she should no 
longer see the faces they made at her, or hear 
their senseless, rude attempts at witticism, of 
which she was the object; they tried no more 
practical jokes on her, and eaiiy talked to her, or 
noticed her at all," s wnin they wanted her to do 
something for them, or give them information 
which they could not obtain elsewhere — favors 
which she granted or not, according to her mood. 

Mrs. Yellott’s dislike was not openly aggres- 
sive; she had found out in time that her brother 
watched with jealous eye to see if his ward re- 
ceived a due and proper amount of attention, and 
made it felt, in liis grave, gentle way, when he 
noticed that she did not. But this woman’s 
politeness stung Lucia much more than her 
neglect would have done. Sometimes it was: 
“Frank, my boy, always help Lucia first;” or 
“Louise, my child, move! I’ in afraid it is dis- 


i44 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


agreeable to Lucia to have you sit so near her;” 
or, “Don’t you see, Mamie, that you have taken 
the largest peach — leave it for Lucia!” or, 
“Lucia, excuse me, I did not see that your 
cup was out;” or when out driving, she would, 
with a great fuss, move them all, crowding 
them upon the front seat together, because, 
as she said, “it made Lucia sick to ride back- 
wards!” Nor could all Lucia’s protestations 
to the contrary alter the case. But she was care- 
ful, with all this show of interest, never to say a 
kind word or show the least affectionate interest 
towards her, or include her in the merry confer- 
ences and chats she was accustomed to have with 
her own children; in short, she had that ingen- 
ious way of hurting and stinging, peculiar to 
people who are well bred and malicious at the 
same time; and she did it in a style which was 
quite an art, and could not be resented because 
it was done so properly and politely; but the rap 
of an iron knuckle hurts none the less for its 
being cased in velvet, nor is the sudden dig of a 
cat’s claw upon a confiding hand less painful be- 
cause hidden beneath the soft, deceptive fur. 
Allan Brooke saw it all, but he could only bite 
his nether lip until it bled, because there was 
nothing that he could take hold of whereby to 
change the aspect of affairs; there was only a pre- 
vailing spirit of discomfort and uneasiness, and 
the firm conviction that his sister hated his ward 
and would make her feel it when the time came. 
“But then,” he charitably thought, “I suppose 
she cannot help it, for Lucia is a strange, unat- 
tractive child to most persons, and Ellen has not 
the same reasons for overlooking her disagreeable 
traits that I have. There’s no love lost between 


i45 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 

them, I’m certain of that; but Lucia’s too hon- 
est to bear malice, or to do anything to revenge 
herself; she only makes herself disagreeable, and 
does, not know how to conciliate. Poor child! 
what a warfare lies before her! But she’ll fight 
it out — and conquer too, I verily believe — for I 
never saw a deeper and truer religious principle 
than she has. Heigh-ho! it will not be prudent 
for me to notice anything.” 

Meanwhile Lucia’s beautiful dress was cut out, 
and tastefully made by Mrs. Yellott’s maid, Fan- 
chette, so called since a winter spent in Paris 
where Fanchette was much admired, and had 
picked up some “servant-gal” French. The girl 
did not love her mistress, and was consequently 
the friend and ally of whomever she suspected her 
of disliking; and she had sworn in her heart to 
do Lucia a kindness the first opportunity that 
offered, in return for the punishment Lucia had 
inflicted on the little tyrants whose daily exac- 
tions made her life at times unendurable. 

“Here.” said Mrs. Yellott, when she handed 
her the material; “cut this out, and make it up 
for Miss D’Olivieras; don’t waste much time over 
it, though, for I can only spare you a day. She’s 
such a plain little thing that the dress must be 
made simply; so you need put no ruffling or ex- 
tra trimming upon it; do you hear?” 

“Yes’ m.” 

“Go right to her room and fit it on — and re- 
member, I cannot spare you but a day!” Then 
Mrs. Yellott whisked down to the house-keeper’s 
room, where Chloe, breaking eggs and weighing 
out sugar and flour, awaited her. 

“Ha! ah!” said the saucy, pretty mulatto, 
tossing her head, as soon as her mistress was out 

IO 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


146 

of hearing, “ that means that it’s to be made up 
anyhow, so’s to make that poor little thing look 
like a fright; but jinks! you don’t catch this 
weasel asleep, for if I don’t make her a reg’lar 
reshershy dress that’ll make her, if she is ugly, 
look charming , I wish I may never! I’ll do it 
just for spite ! and I’ll set up of nights to make 
it exactly like one I saw in Paree that blessed 
winter. I know she’ll scold, and slap my jaws; 
but I don’t care for that, — I’m used to it, and it 
saves rouge /’ ’ 

Fanchette lost no time in beginning her task. 
Fortunately for her kind intentions, Lucia was 
in one of her passive moods, and let her have her 
will in fitting her, and even grew interested as 
Fanchette, moving lightly, speaking pleasantly 
and kindly, turned her round and round, took up 
seams, laid plaits, and pinned and basted, until 
a waist without a wrinkle was the triumphant 
result. 

“I think Missy, if you’ll let me make you a 
sash of the same it’ll be a heap prettier than the 
ribbon; for such a little lady as you the ribbon’s 
too heavy ; and I’ll make it lovely with trimmings 
of the black stripe, and it’ll look a sight better 
with such a gauzy dress, — it’ll be suitabler !” 

Lucia touched the spring of her glittering little 
watch, and saw that it was time for her to go to 
the music-room, where she was to practice a cel- 
ebrated and difficult duet with her guardian, and 
she made it a rule never to keep him waiting. 

“Make it to suit yourself. I don’t care much 
if it is never made, but thank you all the same, 
Fanchette,” she answered, as she once more put 
on her miserably-fitting black dress, which had 
a quilling of black crape around the neck and 
wrists, and hastened down to the music-room. 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


H7 


The day before the fete champetre , Mrs. Yellott 
went to look after some fine pears, which she had 
arranged with her own hands, that they might 
not touch one another, on a shelf, in one of the 
outhouses', where the garden seeds and tools and 
bulb roots were generally kept to ripen. Not a 
day passed that she did not run there at least 
once to see if the golden tinge was deepening 
upon them, and to her great joy as the critical 
day approached she saw that they would be just 
at the stage of mellow ripeness, which would 
leave nothing either in flavor or appearance to be 
desired. These pears were to be the glory and 
triumph of her fruit pyramids; there were none 
like them anywhere else in the county, and she 
told her brother with an exultant air, that she 
“was sure the golden apples of the Hesperides 
did not compare with them.” 

This cool, dry, sequestered spot, overshadowed 
by great beeches, was one of Lucia’s favorite 
places of refuge when she wished to be entirely 
alone to read, think, or indulge in the bitter sol- 
itariness of one of her desperate moods. Frank 
Yellott, out of boyish curiosity, followed her 
here one day, and, as he stood peeping through a 
crack, inhaled the fragrance of the ripe fruit, 
and suspected that some might be stored there; 
but he could not go in while Lucia was here, 
and he determined to loiter around out of sight 
until she went back to the house, then go in and 
explore the place, which he did to some purpose, 
for he not only found the pears, but ate a num- 
ber of them. “Who cares?” he thought, as he 
munched the delicious fruit, while the nectar-like 
juice ran in little rivulets from the corners of his 
mouth ; 4 ‘ nobody sees me, and nobody but Lucia 


148 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


comes here; — they’ll think she ate them !” The 
boy did not take a moral or religious view of the 
matter; he thought nothing of the Bye that never 
slumbers or sleeps, nor of the grieved spirit, ever 
near, whose office it was to keep him “from 
striking his foot against a stone ” when the voice 
of his conscience was heeded. The lad’s sur- 
face-training and his mother’s example tended 
to make him a sham, and impress upon his mind 
that the greatest evil of a bad act was being found 
out. So he ate until he was satisfied, and 
chuckled over the awful fuss old Bligli, the gar- 
dener, would be in when he missed his pears, 
and made up his mind to come back in the even- 
ing and enjoy another feast. 

It was nearly dusk when Lucia — who was half 
distracted by the noise of hammers, as the men 
nailed up the evergreens over doors, windows 
and arches, under Mrs. Yellott’s energetic super- 
vision, and the running to and fro of servants, 
the chattering, and giggling, and general confu- 
sion, and Mrs. Yellott’s shrill notes of command 
sounding continually above the din — fled tO ( 
her quiet refuge, breathing the wild wish that’ 
she had a desert island all to herself, as she 
threw herself on a root-box in one of the darkest 
corners. Presently, recovering from the fever 
and tumult of the moment, she thought she 
would walk down the river-path a short distance, 
and watch the new moon dancing upon the 
waves; but she heard quick, light footsteps ap- 
proaching, followed by a droll little tune trilled 
out in snatches; then she heard Fanchette’s 
voice saying: U I certainly see her come down 
this way, but I see no sign of her or of the tool- 
house. Ow est-elle? Oh, how morantic is it 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


149 


here ! it makes me feel sentimentical ! Oh, how 
sweet the leaves does russle ! Jolie ! how bew- 
ti-ful the new moon looks — for all the world like 
a silver boat ! ” — 

At this point of the beatific soliloquv an owl 
hooted right overhead, which scared Fancliette 
so that she uttered an answering shriek, fright- 
ening the owl from her nest, and bringing her, 
flying low and blindly, almost in her face, as she 
fell screaming and convulsed to the ground. 
Lucia had seen and heard it all, and laughed 
as she had never laughed in her life before; 
but recovering her breath, she put her head out 
of the window, which brought her quite near 
the terrified girl, and said: ‘‘Fancliette, Fan- 
chette, don’t be scared; get up and come in 
here.” 

“Oh! the gliostesses ! O Lord have mercy! 
Oh ! please, good ghost, don’t eat me up! ” she 
moaned, while her teeth chattered like castanets. 

“It is I, Fanchette — Miss Lucia,” said Lucia, 
coming out and taking her by the hand. 

“ You? you a-flying but of a tree with great 
black wings? Oh! please, Miss, don’t go and 
put a spell upon me. I’ve made your dress so 
beautiful, and I loves you dearly,” sobbed' Fan- 
chette. 

“It was an owl, Fanchette — indeed it is; she 
has a nest up in the hollow at the top of the tree. 
Come in and sit down here by me, and I’ll go 
home with you,” said Lucia, between little merry 
bursts of laughter. 

“O Miss Lucia, is you sure it’s you? I never 
was so scared in my born days. I haint heard a 
owl hoot since I was a little child. Oh, my ! I’ve 
bust all the hooks and eyes off my frock, and my 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


150 

cosset-strings went off like a pistol, I was that 
scared,” she gasped, as she accompanied Lucia 
•into the tool-house, where they sat down to- 
gether, for Fanchette declared that she couldn’t 
walk up to the house then to save her life. 

“You were very silly to be so scared for noth- 
ing, Fanchette. That owl and I are the best of 
friends. I like to hear her hoot, and see her 
great eyes shining like two candles up there in 
the hollow,” said Lucia, holding the girl’s cold, 
trembling hand in both her own; but Fanchette 
was now crying, and the strain on her nerves was 
relieved by the tears she so freely shed. In a 
little while she became quite calm, and told 
Lucia that she “felt better, and would like to 
go home. ’ ’ 

But as they arose to go, they heard footsteps 
tramping down the path, crunching and scatter- 
ing last year’s leaves which lay deep about here, 
towards the tool-house. Fanchette held Lucia 
tight, as the sounds came nearer and nearer, and 
could scarcely suppress a shriek, when a dark 
object, they could not tell what, bounded across 
the threshold. The intruder, who was no less a 
person than Frank Yellott, did not see the two 
faces staring blankly at him from the dark 
corner, but hurrying across the floor, clambered 
up to the shelf where the pears were, and began 
to enjoy himself eating them. He ate and ate, 
and stuffed his pockets, and would have gone on 
eating, but some involuntary half-smothered 
exclamation from Fanchette frightened him 
down from his roost, and he disappeared with 
his booty. 

“Lawsy! look here, Miss Lucia, you’ll hear 
a precious fuss ’bout them pears to-morrow, I 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 151 

tell you / Missis has been fussin’ and worryin’ 
herself ’bout them pears for two week; there’s 
none like ’em, I’ve heard her say fifty times, 
anywhere ’bout here; and now! — I’ll go right 
straight and tell her.” 

“Don’t, Fanchette, it would be mean to tell, 
and everybody would be so mad with him. Mr. 
Brooke would never forgive him,” plead Lucia. 

“I wish Mar’s Allan would give him a good 
trouncing ; he’s just dying for one big whippin’ ; 
you don’t know what a awful bad boy he is; and 
he’s that sly ! Missis thinks he’s a angel.” 

“I don’t think a whipping would hurt him, 
and I don’t care at all if he got one every day; 
but it is not honorable to tell tales, and you 
can’t tell on him without bringing me in, and I 
won’t have it. I’d die before I’d tell on him. 
And then, you know, Fanchette it would grieve 
Mr. Brooke.” 

“That’s maganimous, Miss Lucia; but if you 
won’t tell, I won’t. But just think of that boy! 
I bet you he’ll be roaring with stomach-ache be- 
fore morning!” said Fanchette, throwing up 
her hands and eyes. 

And he was, frightening his mother half to 
death, and every servant in the house running, 
some for mustard, some for hot water, some for 
peppermint, and two off in opposite directions 
on horseback to bring the first doctor they could 
find. Towards dawn he grew more easy, and 
fell asleep, when the worn-out servants — not 
feeling remarkably good-humored at being de- 
prived of rest, which they had honestly earned 
by their exertions through the day, and really 
needed — went to bed, muttering to each other : 
“I bet it was his greediness; I never did see a 
boy stuff hisself so in my born days!” 


152 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


Fanchette laughed in her sleeve all night; and 
while we are far from commending her for show- 
ing such apparent heartlessness, we relate the 
fact that when Frank Yellott would be bawling 
the loudest, and twisting himself into the hardest 
of knots with the pain that Was rending him — 
and his mother, nearly distracted, was crying 
and rushing to and fro, doing her best with 
mustard-plasters and draughts of warm water 
for his relief — 'this miserable Fan would rush 
from the room to put her head out of the hall 
window and laugh until she cried, feeling more 
than amply revenged for the long arrear of 
wrongs she had endured at his hands. 

Lucia, unused to illness, was terrified, and 
thought Frank was going to die; her heart soft- 
ened towards him, and she knelt at her bedside 
and prayed for his recovery, and said her beads 
for Mrs. Yellott, whose noisy distress called on 
the sympathies of all within hearing; then she 
crept to the door to ask if she could do anything, 
but Cliloe led her back to her room and lifted 
her bodily into her bed, saying: “No need to be 
oneasy, Missy; he’s been eatin’ green apples, I 
s’ pose, and it’s nothin’ but the colic; you go to 
sleep and don’t ’sturb yourself ’bout him.” 

In consequence of losing rest, everybody, ser- 
vants and all, were up later than usual the next 
morning, consequently everything would be 
crowded together and hurried all day. There 
were a thousand little things to be done, and 
now Mrs. Yellott saw, that manage as she might, 
she would scarcely have time to perfect all her 
arrangements, and spare an hour for rest, and 
making her toilette, before the hour appointed 
for the guests to assemble. The long tables were 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 


153 


set, and the fine damask cloths that looked like 
rich satin were spread over them. The rare 
china, bought at Sevres, the silver-gilt epergnes 
and candelabras, the glittering cut glass, and the 
richly chased gold fruit stands, were placed in 
order upon them; nothing could have been more 
admirably arranged for effect, and Mrs. Yellott, 
well satisfied, sent word to Bligh to “ bring in 
the fruit and flowers, and not to forget the 
pears. ’ ’ 

Lucia heard the order as she came in from the 
lawn, where she had been having a game of 
battledore with Louise Yellott, and her heart 
quaked within her, but she did not wait for the 
result, but hurried off to the music-room, where 
she closed the doors and began her daily prac- 
tice, wondering how the matter would end. 
Fancliette giggled, and her eyes grew large and 
expectant; she would not have missed the scene 
she looked for for her freedom, and suddenly be- 
came very zealous in making herself useful. 
Frank had gone sailing with his uncle, and as 
there was no one else in the secret, nobody felt 
any concern, but went on as if a pear had never 
grown or been stolen by a greedy boy. 

“Here the * flowers, marm; and here’s the 
fruit,” said old Bligh standing at the door; “but 
the pars, they has been eat or stole by some- 
body. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Yellott was speechless at first, then her 
face crimsoned and her anger burst forth. 

“Who took the pears?” she wanted to know; 
but nobody could tell. She rated Bligh for his 
carelessness, and threatened him with dismissal; 
she grew judicial, she cross-questioned him and 
the servants who stood gaping around, but could 


154 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


not discover the slightest clue; then she de- 
manded to know “who was in the habit of going 
to the tool -house ? ” 

“Nobody in partic’ler, that I knows of, ’ceptin’ 
Miss Lucy — she comes thar sometimes to read. 
Lut Miss Lucy didn’t eat them pars, I’ll bet.” 

“Who did, then? Tell me, I say, who did? 
I insist on knowing,” said Mrs. Yellott, whose 
wrath was momently rising. 

‘ ‘ / didn’ t ; and as long as you force me to speak 
out, marm, I must say that my belief is strong 
that your own boy eat ’em; he’s oncommon fond 
of fruit, and I heard he had a awful stomach- 
ache last night, ’ ’ answered Bligh, who knew that 
his white skin would save him from the conse- 
quences of his impudence. Fanchette snorted 
out laughing, and pretended to be seized with a 
dreadful fit of coughing, while a sympathetic 
grin appeared on the faces of the other negroes, 
which Mrs. Yellott was quick to see; and while 
it infuriated her to the highest degree, she was 
reminded by it that she had lost her dignity in 
the presence of her inferiors; and ever careful of 
appearances, she restrained her anger with a 
sudden check, calmly ordered Fanchette to tell 
the young ladies to come in out pf the sun, and 
turning to Bligh, said in the most dignified man- 
ner : “Bligh, my son is a gentleman, and would 
not be guilty of such a thing. It must have 
been some of the young negroes who took the 
pears, and I will see that they are found out and 
punished when my brother gets back. You 
should have kept the door locked.” 

“Could’nt do it, marm, seeing Miss Lucy was 
fond of coming thar. Mr. Allan had give me 
his orders that she was to have the freedom of 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


I 55 

the place, and I s’ pose lie’s master at 1 Hay- 
lands.’ ” 

“You can leave the house now, if you please. 
Send up some more pine apples and white 
grapes; stop — and another basketful of the ‘Ham- 
burghs.’ ” 

“I cut nigh all that was ripe; I s’ pose you 
don’t want the green ones? You’ll find out, 
Miss Yellott, that that ’ar boy of yourn” — 

“Begone instantly, Bligh !” exclaimed Mrs. 
Yellott, stamping her foot, while her eyes flashed 
with fury. Bligh retreated, growling audibly as 
he went through the hall. 

“And so,” she thought, “Miss Lucia is the 
pivot on which ‘Haylands’ turns! She’s a 
power here. But Miss Lucia goes every day to 
the tool-house to read, does she, when there’s' a 
great cool library in the house where she would 
not be disturbed ! The sly little toad ! it is she 
who has eaten the pears, and I shall speak to 
Allan about it as soon as he gets back, for it 
shows a moral turpitude in the girl that for her 
soul’s sake must be checked in time. If this 
don’t open my foolish brother’s eyes to the true 
character of the girl, I don’t know what will,” 
and so she went on lashing herself up tons firm 
a conviction that Lucia had stolen and eaten the 
pears as if she had seen her do it, so easy is it to 
persuade ourselves of what we wish to believe, 
especially when we have an object in so doing. 

When Allen Brooke got back to “ Haylands,” 
he was told that “ Miss Ellen was waiting in the 
library to see him,” and he went straight to her, 
with a smile upon his face and a pleasant 
thought in his heart as to what amusing agony 
she was in then. “She was always in a fuss, — 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


156 

she was so full of energy; and he wondered if it 
was to have the course of the wind or the river 
stayed, or get him to bespeak the nearer ap- 
proach of Jupiter and his moons to add splendor 
to the fete . But we will see,” he thought, as he 
entered his library and found Mrs. Yellott 
awaiting him, looking so grave and so very 
quiet that all idea of badinage gave place to seri- 
ous apprehensions of something dreadful. 

“ Is anything the matter? ” he asked quickly. 

Then she told him, only hinting at her suspi- 
cions of Lucia in the most diplomatic way, and 
expressing so much sorrow and regret at feeling 
obliged to trouble him, that Allan Brooke, 
grown jealously sensitive about Lucia, saw at 
once that she was the salient point of the story, 
and that his sister, without directly saying so, 
thought her the guilty one. He comprehended 
it all under the flimsy pretense that she made 
to conceal it, and the keenest interest was 
aroused in him, before which everything else 
sunk into insignificance. To have such a charge 
made against Zoe’s daughter, and, what was 
still worse, the dread that perhaps there might 
be truth in it. But, no ! He rejected the 
thought with generous violence; he would not 
harbor it a moment; this defenceless, forlorn 
child was his to protect and cherish for her dead 
mother’s sake, and liq would do it with his very 
life, if may be. 

“ You do not really think,” he asked, gravely, 
when Mrs. Yellott finished her specious state- 
ment, “ that Lucia ate those pears? I have never 
seen the smallest meanness in her; and what is 
more to the purpose, I offered her one of those 
very pears two days ago, — one I had put into 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


157 


my pocket to show you, — and she refused it, 
saying she never ate them, they always made 
her sick.” 

“ Oh no, Allan, don’t understand me as accus- 
ing Lucia. I only tell you what Bligh said: 

‘ that Lucia was the only one who was in the 
habit of going to the tool-house,’ and I thought 
perhaps — you know how children are — that 
Lucia might have been tempted, you know — 
but hadn’t we better let the matter rest where it 
is?” 

“No, that is not my way, Ellen. Lucia 
is suspected by you of this theft — to put it 
plainly, — and I do not choose that she shall 
rest another hour under such an imputation. 
She must have an opportunity to clear herself, 
as I am sure she will be able to do; if not, I am 
equally certain that if it was she who took the 
fruit, she will acknowledge it without prevarica- 
tion. ” 

“I am glad you have so good an opinion of 
her, Allan. Remember, I have not accused 
Lucia,” said Mrs. Yellott, delighted at the pros- 
pect of Lucia’s disgrace. 

“Not in so many words, Ellen; but it is easy 
to know what you think,” replied Allan Brooke, 
as he got up and pulled the bell- cord. “Go 
and ask Miss Lucia to come here for a moment,” 
he said to the servant who answered the bell. 

“I do not wish my ward’s feelings hurt, 
Ellen,” he added, turning again towards Mrs. 
Yellott; “therefore, when she comes, I shall 
question her myself. I shall question her, mind 
you, in the firm belief that she knows nothing 
more about those confounded pears than I do 
myself. ’ ’ 


zoe;’s daughter. 


158 


, CHAPTER XII. 

FRANK YEEEOTT DOES NOT GO TO THE FETE 
CHAMPETRE. 

Eucia obeyed the summons instantly. There 
was an expression of mingled defiance and tim- 
idity in her great wild eyes, which reminded 
Allan Brooke of a hunted roe brought to bay, as 
she entered the library and cast a quick piercing 
glance at the two faces before her, as if she would 
read their souls. The master, full of a deep 
compassion, placed a chair for her opposite to 
his own; and Lucia, her face somewhat paler 
than usual, seated herself without speaking, 
showing no sign of nervousness except twisting 
her fingers together in and out, with a rapid 
motion. 

“Lucia, my child, are you in the habit of 
going often to the tool-house?” asked her 
guardian. 

“Quite often, sir,” she replied, in alow voice, 
looking quickly down. 

“Were you there yesterday at any time?” 

“Yes, sir; I was there for some time yesterday 
evening.” 

“Did you see any one while there?” 

“I saw Fancliette!” — her voice almost in a 
whisper. 

“Did you at any time observe a number of 
pears that were placed upon a shelf there to 
ripen ? ’ ’ 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


159 


“What in the world was Fancliette doing 
there?” exclaimed Mrs. Yellott, who suddenly 
remembered her maid’s hysterical conduct for 
the past twenty-four hours; but 110 one noticed 
her question, and Lucia replied: 

“Yes, sir; I saw the pears, but did not touch 
them. I do not like pears.” She spoke out 
firmly, and looked up fearlessly. 

“Did you see any one else besides Fancliette 
there, Lucia?” asked her guardian’s kind, level 
voice. 

Now she was silent; her cheeks crimsoned, 
and when she raised her eyes with a swift glance 
towards Mrs. Yellott, there was a look half 
anger half pity in them, but she did not an- 
swer. 

“Can you not answer me, Lucia?” asked her 
guardian. 

“No, sir; I will not answer any more ques- 
tions,” she replied, in quick, nervous tones, look- 
ing full into his face. 

“Aha! it is just as I suspected,” exclaimed 
Mrs. Yellott exultingly. “Speak the truth, 
Lucia, if you wish to be forgiven.” 

“The truth ! No ! I won’t speak the truth — 
it” — Here she paused, her breath heaving 
quickly, the blood crimsoning her cheeks to a 
deeper flush, and her lips trembling. She looked 
guilty, in her dread of betraying the real culprit. 
She could not bear Mrs. Yellott, but she shrunk 
from so cruel a stab as telling her that her son 
was a thief. Circumstantial evidence so far 
was against her, and Allan Brooke felt sick at 
heart, but after all he might be mistaken in 
heL 

“I am pained, Lucia; I am sorry, for both 


i6o 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


our sakes, that you will not be more frank with 
me. Ellen, call Fanchette.” 

u Now,” thought Eucia, “it will all come out. 
Fanchette will be sure to tell on him.” But she 
held her peace, looking down at her restless 
hands, while Mrs. Yellott, exultant in her an- 
ticipated disgrace, watched her. It is a strange 
thing that the thought of Lucia’s trying to shield 
some one else did not enter into the minds of 
either. Mrs. Yellott was a. clever woman, full 
of devices, and penetrating enough to detect 
tricky or at least to suspect hidden motives in 
other people; but she was so bent on humiliating 
Lucia, that she gave herself no time to think of 
anything else. It was more strange, however, 
in Allan Brooke’s case, because his nature was a 
noble and magnanimous one, full of generous 
motives and humane aspirations, which always 
led him to extenuate and find excuses for others 
rather than accuse and condemn. 

Fanchette looked a little scared and a little 
saucy, when she made her appearance, jauntily 
dressed, as usual, and displaying her very best 
“ de Paree ” air. 

“Fanchette,” began Mrs. Yellott, with a 
severe air, “my brother wishes to know if you 
were at the tool-house last evening?” 

“Yes’ m ; I went down there to get a little air.” 

“And who did you see there?” A quick look 
of intelligence passed between Lucia and Fan- 
chette, which did not go unnoticed, and ’Allan 
Brooke felt like gathering Lucia in his arms and 
rushing away with her, to spare her the pain and 
humiliation that he was sure was coming. 

“I saw a owl, Missis, and it scared me almost 
to death,” answered Fanchette, with a little ner- 
vous giggle. 


zoe’s daughter. 


161 


“Do not trifle with me, but tell me this in- 
stant whS * you saw there. I am not speaking of 
owls.” 

“I saw Miss Lucia; she helped me up” — 

“Did you see no one else?” 

The proceedings were here interrupted, and all 
father questioning rendered unnecessary, by the 
entrance of Maum Chloe, in a state of high fluster 
and indignation, holding in one hand a soiled linen 
suit of Frank Yellott’s, and in the other, two 
half-eaten pears. Chloe was a privileged person 
at “Haylands,” and when she was irate she was 
no respecter of persons. She marched straight 
up in the midst of the group assembled, and 
turning the pockets of Frank’s pantaloons wrong 
side outwards — after having slammed the over- 
ripe pears upon the table before Mrs. Yellott, 
with a vim that flattened them — held them up, 
stained past all hope with the juices of the mel- 
low, half-decayed fruit that had been stuffed into 
them. 

“Now you knows, Miss Ellen, what made 
that ’ar boy of yourn have such a stomach-ache 
last night, ’larmin’ the whole place; he eat them 
pars; why, look here at this shirt front an’ his 
wristbands — they is stiff an’ black, an’ ’twont 
come out nuther ! ’ ’ 

Mrs. Yellott could not speak at first; then she 
declared, as soon as she recovered a little from 
the shock, “ that it was all a made-up thing to 
spite her and her poor, fatherless Franky,” and 
bursting into tears left the room, followed by 
Chloe, predicting that “ dat boy’s greediness 
would be the death of him.” 

“Lucia, my child, forgive me for troubling 
you with a single question about this affair; some 

ii 


zoe’s daughter. 


162 

of these days I will be able to explain why I did 
so; but trust me, it was for your own sake, little 
one. Run away, now, and let me see you bright 
and blooming this evening.” 

“You’ll forgive Frank, Mr. Brooke?” she 
asked, timidly. She could not yet understand 
that she had been suspected. 

“Well, I can forgive Frank for the loss of the 
pears, and his greediness has already been pun- 
ished by a night of severe suffering; but for his 
meanness and slyness, and leaving others to be 
suspected and accused — No ! I cannot forgive 
that so readily,” answered her guardian, with 
such a stormy look about his brows that Lucia 
trembled and ran up to her own room. 

1 4 Now, Fanchette, ’ ’ said Allan Brooke, sternly, 
to that gay young woman, “ I command you to 
answer me truly; did you, or did you not, see 
Frank Yellott at those pears?” 

“ I don’t like to speak, Mars’ Allan; you know, 
sir, Missis’ d be so mad, and she threatens so often 
to sell me off to Georgy* when she gets in her 
passions, that I’m ’feared she’ll do it some day.” 

“That is not to the point; give me a direct 
answer, and I will protect you from the conse- 
quences,” said the master sternly. 

“Well, Mars’ Allan, maybe ’twas his ghost, 
but it was something mightily like him, and he 
ate and stuffed pars ’till I thought he’d bust; so 
thar !” blurted out Fanchette. 

“Did I understand that you and Miss Lucia 
were in the tool-house together when he came 
in?” 

“Yes, sir, that was the way; the owl scared 


Georgia. 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


163 

me, then Miss Lucia called me and scared me, 
then she made me come in and set down by her 
in the corner, way back by the end window, '’till 
I got better — for I was that weak, Mars’ Allan, I 
thought I was dyin’ and then while we sot thar 
he come in and climbed up to the shelf and” — 

“Why did you not speak to him to stop 
him? ” 

“/ felt ’shamed, sir, and I reckon Miss Lucia 
did, too, for she made me promise not to tell. 
Did Miss Lucia tell, Mars’ Allan?” 

“No, Miss Lucia did not tell. Go away, now, 
and send Frank here and remember, if you get 
into any trouble about this, let me know it.” 

“Yes sir — mctrcee!' n said Fanchette, dropping 
a courtesy, as she went out of the library. “I 
hope he’ll catch it; Missis may promise to pun- 
ish him, but, jai na croyez par cela , she’ll just 
coddle him the more, and make him think lie’s 
a pussecuted saint.” Much relieved by letting 
off some of her execrable French, Fanchette 
adroitly - busied herself filling the vases with 
flowers, and decorating every available spot with 
them, so much to Mrs. Yellott’s satisfaction, 
that she seemed to be in high favor for the rest 
of the day. 

What passed between Frank and his uncle we 
do not know, except that being pushed pretty 
close to the wall, and seeing no loop-hole of 
escape, he confessed his fault, and was ordered 
to his room to remain there until after the fete 
champetre. Mrs. Yellott cried and remonstrated, 
but her brother was firm, and she had to make 
the best of it she could. Lucia heard her tell 
Father Jannison that “Frank had been impru- 
dent, eating unripe fruit, which made him ill, 


164 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


and he was still too sick to leave Iris room, poor 
child. ’ ’ Lucia shrank away out of sight, ashamed 
for the woman, who told her white lies so glibly 
and pathetically, and wishing to spare her the 
mortification of knowing that she had overheard 
her. 

It was a brilliant scene, with the great ramb- 
ling house in the centre, brilliantly lighted up, 
and every available spot in the spacious, lofty 
rooms, decorated with garlands and flowers; the 
lawn and groves were illuminated with trans- 
parencies of every color and shade, and filled 
with groups of happy, gaily-dressed children, 
who flitted about like butterflies, while the 
grown-up guests walked, stood, or sat about in 
groups admiring the scene, and exchanging the 
news of their respective neighborhoods, and lis- 
tening to the distant sound 6f music floating out 
from the ball-room, where, however, the danc-. 
ing had not yet begun. Father Jannison was 
there in all the glory of a new soutane , sash, and 
bonnet-carre , imported expressly for him by 
Allan Brooke, which arrived opportunely for the 
occasion, — -just one week before. He had a 
pleasant word for all; Protestants as well as 
Catholics surrounded him wherever he moved; 
the children clung to his skirts and hung by his 
hands, and his old friends had to talk to him 
over their heads, for he would not allow them to 
be sent away. Sam Meggs and his yvife were 
also delighted lookers-on of the fete , the guests of 
Bligh, the gardener, who was an old comrade of 
Sam’s during the few weeks that the latter was 
compelled, by military power, to serve on picket 
duty, when Cockburn was prowling . up and 
down the Potomac and laying waste the pleasant 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 1 65 

homes on the bay shores with fire, rapine and 
sword. 

At last the children, attracted by a glittering 
display of fireworks farther up on the grounds, 
rushed off, leaving Father Jannison free, and he 
stood talking with Allan Brooke and a group of 
gentleman about the treaty of peace just con- 
cluded with England and other public affairs, 
when Lucia, whom he had not yet seen, although 
he had inquired and been on the look-out for her 
ever since he came, ran up to him in a state of 
the wildest, merriest excitement, seized his hand, 
and after kissing it, in her pretty Spanish fashion, 
exclaimed: “I have been looking everywhere 
for you, Padre mio ; come with me this instant ! ’ ’ 

“Why, bless my soul, Lucia, is it you? why, 
my child, I didn’t know you! Brooke, I can 
scarcely believe my own eyes!” said Father 
.Jannison, astonished and delighted at Lucia’s 
improved appearance. 

“ ‘Haylands,’ you se’e, agrees with my ward,” 
answered Allan Brooke, looking with proud 
eyes on Lucia, though scarcely less astonished 
than Father Jannison at her strange transforma- 
tion,* effected by the skill and taste of Fanchette, 
who had not only assisted at her toilette that 
evening, arranging the fullness of her beautiful 
transparent dress, through which the gold threads 
glittered like fire-flies, but had fixed her hair and 
confined it around her head by a string of Roman 
pearls, which formed a pure contrast to its 
glossy blackness and to the midnight flashes 
of her great eyes. The sash was a marvel of 
good taste, the sleeves loose and flowing, the 
body gathered around the throat under a Harrow 
frill of fine lace, and a geranium leaf with a few 


1 66 


ZCX&’S DAUGHTER. 


sprigs of white jessamine worn in place of brooch 
or ribbon. In contrast with her dress, her 
cheeks were crimson with excitement, her lips 
glowing, her eyes flashing, and taking her all in 
all, she looked actually radiant. 

“Come, Mr. Brooke, just one minute; I want 
you to see a sight, ’ ’ she argued. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said the master, yielding, 
“ I suppose we must follow this imperious little 
lady — my ward, Lucia d’Olivieras.” 

Lucia curtseyed and led Father Jannison off in 
triumph, followed by the others. 

“Is that Zoe Ramsey’s daughter, Brooke?-” 

“Yes,” he answered, reservedly. 

4 ‘ I heard that you had adopted her, or some- 
thing.” 

4 ‘ She is my ward. ’ ’ 

“Ah ! poor Zoe! is it true that her marriage 
was very unhappy?” 

4 4 There was some such rumor, I believe, ’ ’ an- 
swered Allan Brooke, wincing and wishing the 
man was in China. 

“She’s going to be very handsome,” was the 
next remark of his interlocutor. “She’s a per- 
fect Titania !” 

“She’s a very gifted child, but will not be 
pretty, I fear,” he replied. 

4 4 Wait until she grows up to her eyes and nose ; 
they are both a little too big for the size of her 
face now. I tell you, Brooke, she’ll make a 
handsomer woman than her mother, who was a 
beauty.” 

44 She may; I have not thought about it,” an- 
swered Allan Brooke, coldly. 

By/this time Lucia, still holding Father Jan- 
nison’s hand, had reached the house, and led the 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 1 67 

way into the ball-room, where the musicians, 
stationed on a gallery which was raised some six 
or eight steps from the floor, were making trials 
of skill in the “gentle science” until the ball 
opened. There were two violins, two tambou- 
rines, a banjo, and one big drum which had been 
used in the late war with England, also a clario- 
net, which formed altogether a respectable or- 
chestra, and was led by a figure at once so 
dazzling and grotesque as to attract the imme- 
diate observation of the party. 

“Look, look, Padre mio , there he is!” said 
Lucia, with a low musical laugh. Father Jan- 
nison had to put on his spectacles before he 
could fairly make out what it all meant — then 
he laughed heartily; and the strange figure, now 
catching sight of them as he lifted his eyes from 
his violin and ended the piece he was playing 
with an indescribable flourish of his bow, made 
a low bow, which Lucia returned by a sweeping 
courtesy, laughing in a perfect abandon of merri- 
ment. 

“Where on earth did that old fellow come 
from, I wonder?” asked the master. 

“That is Jupe, Mr. Brooke!” whispered 
Lucia, laughing. 

“Jupe! Good heavens, how has the old ras- 
cal managed to transform himself in such a 
way?” said Allan Brooke, highly diverted at the 
old negro’s appearance. As he might well be: 
for Jupe, to do honor to the occasion, had arrayed 
himself in finery long laid by, the only relic he 
owned of the glories of the, house of Ramsey, 
which he had kept packed in tobacco leaves to 
save it from the moths, for untold years, and 
expected to be buried in. “Deni’s my stroud ,” 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


168 

he used to say to his old cronies sometimes; 
“and if you doesn’t berry me in ’em I’ll harnt 
you, see if I don’t.” Surmounting his wizened 
black face was a curled white wig of his old 
master’s — not the last Ramsey, but the one be- 
fore him — and his shrunken limbs were arrayed 
in a suit of drab, a cut-away coat and knee- 
breeches, faced with scarlet and decorated with 
large brass buttons polished to the last degree of 
glitter, while his spindle shanks were cased in 
white stockings, and his “low-down shoes” dis- 
played great paste buckles that nearly covered 
the front of his foot.* Jupe scarcely knew him- 
self in his finery; he almost fancied that he had 
just awakened from a gloomy nightmare, to his 
old real life of long ago ! “Git away oysters and 
fish!” he thought, as highly elated, he plied his 
bow. “Dere’s nuthin’ like bein’ wid raal 
quality, arter all ! Free indeed ! I never lived 
like a nigger till I was free!” and with such 
thoughts stirring his old withered brain, he 
made his violin talk as it hadn’t done for all the 
long weary years that it had “hung upon the 
willows. ” 

Father Jannison and the rest of the party were 
highly amused at the tableau : they had all, at 
some time or other, heard of Jupe, the celebrated 
fiddler of “Buckrae,” but thought he was dead 
and buried long ago, and such a resurrection as 
this was a surprise to them; while Father Janni- 
son and Allan Brooke, seeing the delight that 
Jupe’s masquerading afforded Lucia, enjoyed it 
as much as she did. 


*The writer once saw an old family servant dressed as 
described. 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


169 

“ You’ll dance the first set with me, Lucia,” 
said her guardian. 

“I did not mean to dance to-night, sir; but if 
you wish it ” — 

“Yes, I wish it,” he answered in that tone 
which no one ever thought of opposing. “I 
wish it particularly.” 

“I will dance, then. When do they begin?” 

“In a few moments now. See! the young 
folk are thronging in, and we will take our 
places in the quadrille at once,” he answered, 
leading her off. 

“I shall probably be in the way, sir, as I do 
not dance,” said Father Jannison pleasantly to a 
Mr. Goden, a straight-laced Presbyterian elder, 
lately settled in the neighborhood, who was 
standing beside him; “sol shall goon the ve- 
randa, and watch the scene through the windows. 
Will you go?” 

Mr. Goden looked as if he was chief mourner 
at a funeral: he felt on* the eve of perdition in 
such a scene and in such^company, and had errty- 
accepted the invitatioipatythe urgent persuasions 
of his wife and daughter, more fbr the purpose 
of getting acquainted with the gentry of the 
neighboYhood than to gratify them. But he 
could not without rudeness leave the good priest; 
and going out together, they seated themselves 
in large Chinese arm-chairs, where they could 
see quite at their ease the whole interior of the 
ball-room. 

Lucia attracted general attention by her bril- 
liant elfish appearance, her graceful dancing, and 
the fact that she was Zoe Ramsey’s daughter. 
The old romantic story was whispered over in 
corners; speculations as to the amount of her 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


I70 

fortune were indulged in, and there were not a 
few predictions made concerning the future of 
her guardian and herself. Lucia had a passion 
for dancing, as she had for everything that was 
aesthetic; dancing soothed away the discords of 
her nature by the harmony of motion, as the 
fever and tumult of her soul were calmed by the 
harmony of sweet sounds; there was grace in her 
every movement, and she seemed to float on the 
very music, to which she kept time with a 
rhythm as true as poetry. 

“Oh I enjoy it so much, Mr. Brooke, and I 
am engaged for every set, ’ ’ she said to her guar- 
dian, whom she found standing near her while 
she waited her turn to lead off ; “and I can’t tell 
you what good it does me to see Jupe there ! Oh 
I never was so happy in all my life.” Then a 
little sigh gurgled in her throat as the vain wish 
arose with a great throb in her heart that “her 
darling were only there to see how happy she 
was;” but there was 11a time for sadness, — she 
was down for every set, even for “Sir Roger 
de Coverly” and the “Virginia Reel” at the 
very last. Lillfe a brilliant fire-fly sparkling and 
floating through the mazes of the dance, her eyes 
absolutely luminous, the sallowness of her com- 
plexion toned to brilliance by the crimson of her 
cheeks and lips; her quaint foreign ways, and the 
romance of her mother’s history, surrounded her 
with an attractive interest which set the young 
people half wild with admiration, and inspired a 
friendly feeling towards her in the hearts of 
those who had known her family and remem- 
bered her mother’s beautiful girlhood. 

“Don’t dance too much, my child,” said the 
warning voice of her guardian; “and be careful 
not to take ice, while you are overheated.” 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


171 

“Oh no, I won’t,” she answered gayly, as she 
joined hands with her partner and chasseed 
across the floor with a blessed feeling at heart 
that she was watched over and cared for by a 
strong and true friend. 

Nothing was lost to Mrs. Yellott. She was 
soon aware of the interest and admiration excited 
by Lucia, and was amazed beyond description at 
her transformation from an ugly, repulsive chrys- 
alis to a bright, dazzling butterfly, whose every 
movement was grace itself. Her own daughter, 
older and prettier by far than Lucia, created no 
sensation whatever: Mamie’s dress was not at all 
becoming, and she was in the sulks besides, be- 
cause she was not allowed to wear some heavy 
jewelry she had set her heart on; then “poor 
Frank” was in disgrace, all of which combined, 
intensified Mrs. Yellott’s dislike for her brother’s 
ward beyond expression. 

“What a gay little sprite she is,” observed a 
lady to her, as Lucia flitted past. 

“Yes, she is very gay to-night,” answered 
Mrs. Yellott, smiling blandly. 

“Is she not usually cheerful? She is extremely 
pretty, Mrs. Yellott!” 

“Oh no; she has the strangest temper — but it 
is no wonder, poor thing, raised as she was ! 
One has to be very careful with her; shfc flies off 
in such sudden furies, and gets into the most 
unaccountable moods you can imagine. I quite 
pity her.” 

“It is a bad thing for a child to grow up in 
that way. Her mother has not been long dead, 

I believe.” 

“No; only last April.” 

“ How strange she should dance at all after so ( 
recent a loss. ’ ’ 


1 72 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


“Yes; but nothing could persuade her to stay 
away. When my brother proposed giving the 
fete to my children, no one supposed for a 
moment that Lucia Would even wish to appear; 
but she got ready, had her dress made, and all; 
and she’s not one to be thwarted, I can tell you, 
Mrs. Greenway.” 

1 ‘ O dear ! what a charge she will be to Mr. 
Brooke ! ” 

“Yes,” sighed Mrs. Yellott, “it makes me 
quite low-spirited to think of it.” 

“Did Zo € leave anything, Mrs. Yellott? I 
heard that her husband was ruined, and died 
quite poor. 

“ I do not quite know the whole history” — 

“Oh, excuse me. I did not mean” — 

“There’s not the slightest apology necessary, 
Mrs. Greenway : I really do not know anything 
except that Madame d’Olivieras left some little 
fortune — But here is my brother ! Allan, dear, 
had you not better speak to Lucia ? I fear she 
is dancing too much.” 

“Oh no ! let the child enjoy herself; it won’t 
hurt her. Father Jannison thinks it won’t. 
He’s delighted to see her so happy,” he replied, 
passing gaily on. 

The dances of those days were such as a priest 
could lo6k at without growing red in the face; 
“and,” said Father Jannison to Mr. Goden, as 
they sat in the veranda watching the dancers/ 
“ there’s no more harm in young people skipping 
about, keeping time with music, and making all 
sorts of pretty figures, than for them to be skip- 
ping about, chatting and romping anywhere 
else without it; they must have enjoyment, sir, 
and nothing in the way of recreation could be 


% ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 1 73 

more innocent than this, -^-always provided they 
don’t carry it to excess.” 

“ I differ with you in toto , sir. What right, I 
ask you, have Christians to mix in ‘ the assem- 
blies of the wicked?’ We are told to keep our- 
selves unspotted from the world,” observed the 
uneasy elder. 

u Innocent recreation is one of the helps to do 
so,” said Father Jannison quickly; “and I do 
not by any means call this Jete, which is com- 
posed of the best and most practical Christians 
and of innocent children, an ‘ assembly of the 
wicked,’ Mr. Goden.” Mr. Goden groaned and 
moved away, firmly convinced that there were 
horns growing under that outlandish-looking 
cap on Father Jannison’s head, and a cloven hoof 
in his boot. 

Had Father Jannison lived to see the present 
fashionable style of dancing, he would have been 
more horrified than the good old Presbyterian 
elder was that evening at ‘ ‘ Haylands ! ’ ’ Had he 
seen any of those innocent young girls, whom he 
had known from their birth, encircled in the 
arms of men they perhaps never saw before, 
whirling around like dancing deryishes until 
half delirious with the motion, their heads re- 
clined on strange breasts, their eyes closed, their 
arms clung to them for support, while they were 
pressed closer in an audacious embrace; could he 
have seen them in what is called “full dress” 
which means a semi-nudity, resigning themselves 
to the intoxicating abandon of those Bacchante 
revels yclept, “ round dances,” languishing in the 
arms of a roue, a debauchee, or even of a man of 
doubtful character, he would not have stood 
groaning at the window like Mr. Goden, but 


I 74 


zoe’s daughter. 


0 


would liave marched boldly in and put forcible 
stop to the entrancing gyrations, in the rescue 
of a lamb of his flock from such contamination; 
he would have hurled her partner, if need be, to 
the floor, and led her to her parents with the ad- 
monition to keep her from dancing forever, 
rather than allow her to engage in a form of 
dancing fit only for the lewd and such as have 
no respect for the pure and sacred character of 
womanhood. Father Jannison had often read 
of these rude peasant dances of Europe, had 
perhaps seen some of them among the unedu- 
cated half-wild peasantry of Bohemia, and the 
provincial Germans, who held by many of their 
ancient amusements and customs of the unchris- 
tian times, and delighted in them; but the 
thought that they would ever be introduced into 
the homes of Amercia, and be indulged in, night 
after night, by the fair daughters of the land, 
whose persons should be held as sacred as those 
of consecrated vestals, — be indulged in by Catho- 
lic girls with a zest quite equal to that of the 
rest of the world, — never once dawned upon his 
mind, and he was spared one* heavy care and 
cross in his warfare. 

After the magnificent supper, where Mrs. 
Yellott received compliments enough on the per- 
fection and elegance of her arrangements to satiate 
even her, many of the guests strolled to a dis- 
tant portion of the grounds, separated from the 
lawn by a belt of old chestnut trees, to see the 
negroes’ dance. This was a plantation custom, 
and always allowed on such occasions as these. 
Flambeaux of lightwood fastened against the 
trees illuminated the scene in the most brilliant 
manner, while the negroes, male and female, in 


A 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


I 75 


their gayest holiday clothes, danced “hoe- 
downs” and cut “ pigeon-wings ” to the exhil- 
arating music of a fiddle and two banjos. They 
were all barefooted, the women in vivid blues, 
scarlets, and yellows, their wool dressed with 
flowers and lightning-bugs, which glittered like 
diamonds; the men, in gay calico shirts and wide 
white pantaloons made of some coarse-twilled 
cotton stuff; and the children, their heads and 
faces literally bespangled with lightning-bugs, 
in short cotton “cuttie-sarks” barely reaching 
to their knees, leaving their limbs free for such 
grotesque antics as their monkey nature inspired. 

They were all in an ecstasy of fun and frolic, 
anticipating with watering mouths the moment 
when the fragments of the feast at the “Great 
House” would travel down that way. Rough 
planks supported by stumps awaited the coming 
banquet, and swift scouts with large baskets 
were stationed at regular distances between the 
revellers and the distant kitchen to pass on the 
good things without loss of time when the signal 
was given. None of the house-servants of Fan- 
chette’ s class were there; they held themselves 
above such common doings, but danced when- 
ever an opportunity offered on the broad back 
porch into which the ball-room windows opened. 
Fanchette disappeared now and then to take 
ices, cake, salad, French confectionery and jelly 
to Frank Yellott; he would have a portion of 
every rarity, and in the ignoble delight of satis- 
fying his palate to surfeit, felt indifferent to his 
disgrace. Fanchette had received orders from 
her mistress, and although she expected the boy 
would make himself ill again, “it was none of 
her business, and she’d obey orders if it killed 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


176 

him,” she told Chloe, who thought he should 
have “ been kept on bread and water for the next 
week to come.” 

And so the night wore on, full of mirth, music, 
fragrance and beauty, and the stars were begin- 
ning to pale in the lambent pulsations of ap- 
proaching day when the guests went away; and 
as the sound of the violins died away into silence, 
the matin songs of the birds already sounded in 
shrill, sweet notes through the woods. 

The fete was a grand success, and every one 
went home delighted; it had stirred up the “whole 
country, and brought friends and acquaintances 
together who had not seen each other for years, 
for your provincial neighborhoods are slow 
places generally; it had given them something 
to think about and talk over for time to come; 
it had lifted them out of the monotonous routine 
of their dull lives, and reminded them that there 
were other interests and human sympathies be- 
yond their limited horizon; it made them think 
kindly and admiringly of others, and gave them 
fresh heart to take up their burden of daily cares 
again. 

A pleasure given is a benefaction, and a reno- 
vator of the moral life, and the man who bestows 
happiness on others need never despair of 
heaven. There are people in the world who are 
morally “hungry,” “naked,” “sick and in 
prison,” and perishing unto death for the “foun- 
tains of Beulah.” Who thinks of these? Who 
ever dreams of seeking them out to minister to 
their peculiar needs? Ah ! believe me, these are 
more in need of help than many of the corpor- 
ally naked you clothe or the “sick or impris- 
oned” that you visit, than the hungry you feed; 


zoe’s daughter. 


177 


they are hungering, thirsting, dying for human 
sympathy, for friendly counsel, for the sunlight 
of kindly words, for the angel in the shape of 
some happy event to descend into the stagnant 
pool of their hearts and stir its sluggish waters 
into healing life. 

12 


178 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

FATHER JANNISON SETTLES TWO DIFFICULTIES. 

“LET us have some hot coffee,” said Allan 
Brooke, who after having taken leave of the 
last of his guests and seen them off, went into 
the supper-room where Mrs. Yellott was laying 
down the law about the precious Sevres china, 
plate and other costly things, with undiminislied 
energy; and drawing a chair up to the table, 
where the rose tints of morning struggled with 
the pale, flickering lamp-light, said to one of 
the servants: “See if you can find me some cold 
chicken and tongue; and go to the pantry and 
fetch me a good honest slice of bread and butter. 
I’m going to eat my breakfast, Ellen, and go to 
bed.” 

“I shall do the same, Allan; I begin to feel a 
little tired,” she answered pleasantly. “But it 
was delightful, everything passed off deliciously. 
I never saw people enjoy themselves more. But 
what became of Father Jannison? he disap- 
peared about eleven o’clock, and nobody dould 
tell me anything about him.” 

“He went away about a quarter of eleven, 
much to my regret. I saw him off, and lighted 
my boat lantern for him to read his Office by, 
on his way home. He would have remained a 
little later, but had a sick call to attend directly 


zoe’s daughter. 


179 

after his four o’clock Mass, some four or five 
miles from St. Inigoes.” 

“Oh, what a life of sacrifice and self-denial! 
I declare, it almost makes one want to retire 
from the world; and if it were not for the chil- 
dren, I would. Here, Fanchette ! ” cried Mrs. 
Yellott, suddenly brought down from her relig- 
ious aspirations by the appearance of her maid, 
“have you put away all those French flowers, 
and smoothed out my laces? and stop — fold up 
those things lying around my dressing-room. I 
know you have had two or three good sleeps to- 
night, and as it is broad daylight, there’s no use 
going to bed, there’s so much to be done.” 

“ Yes’m,” answered Fanchette, flouncing out. 
She made short work of her task, then marching 
lip to her own room, she deliberately undressed 
herself and went to bed, £0 tired and sleepy that 
she had scarcely touched the pillow before she 
was sound asleep. She knew by experience 
that her mistress would go comfortably to bed 
and not waken until noon, by which time she 
would be up and r$ady to serve her. 

It took several days for everybody to get over 
the excitement of the fete and the household to 
fall back into its quiet, well-ordered ways. The 
reaction left Lucia in a highly nervous, excita- 
ble state, drooping, depressed and very quiet, 
while the other children seemed to have got a 
fresh access of life, and were noisy, wild and 
mischievous beyond bearing, perpetually romp- 
ing, and playing off their pranks upon each 
other and the servants. Frank Yellott, not at 
all abashed by his disgrace, was ever the ring- 
leader in their fun, not caring who was hurt and 
incommoded by it, or who was blamed so long 
as he escaped. 


l 80 ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 

Lucia spent much of the time in the music- 
room practising, and in the library poring over 
the romances of old chivalrous times — the adven- 
tures of crusaders, the lays of the troubadours — 
or turning with curious interest the pages of 
some old work on astrology and the occult 
sciences, which Allan Brooke had bought years 
before in London, and which had a strange fas- 
cinating charm for an imaginative mind like 
hers. Among other curious things she read one 
day the account of an ancient superstition by 
which obnoxious persons could be safely made 
way with, by modelling them in wax and plac- 
ing the figure or figures where they would melt 
slowly in the heat of a steady fire, and as the wax 
dissolved their health would surely and steadily 
decline, until, when the last vestige of it ran 
into shapeless form, th#y would expire. 

“ I should like to make one of Mrs. Yellott !” 
exclaimed Lucia, impulsively, while she clenched 
her small slender hands and her eyes glittered; 
but in another instant she threw the book from her 
as far as she could, and falling upon her knees, 
burst into a passion of tears, exclaiming: “No! 
no ! I did not mean that. It is true that I hate 
her, and I can’t help it, but I would’ t hurt her 
for all the world. Oh, Madre Dolores ! pity me 
and help me ! you know how desolate I am ! 
you know how the wickedness of my heart rises 
up and strangles my good thoughts ! you know 
that I try to do right, and how hard it is for me ! 
No one else, not even Father Jannison, knows it 
all as you, do, and if you do not help me there’s 
no one that can, Madre mia /” 

This is but an instance of how the principles 
of good and evil perpetually struggled for mastery 


zofe’s DAUGHTER. l8l 

in Lucia’s nature, driving her helpless and deso- 
late to the blessed feet of Mary, where if she did 
not always receive aid and comfort, her soul was 
held, softened and subdued by a true penitence. 
Lucia did not know it, but she was already en- 
gaged in that warfare without which the soul 
wins no palms; and like the children slain by 
Herod, she felt the first wounds of a conflict she 
did not comprehend, but which all must suffer 
for the love of Him who redeemed them, if they 
hope to gain eternal life. 

After the fete the county people began to make 
calls; the house was always full of company, and 
Allan Brooke told Lucia that he wished her to 
know the young folks of the neighborhood, the 
children of her mother’s old friends and his own; 
so Chloe, aided by Fanchette, altered her dresses 
to a more modern style, and made her some 
very pretty ones out of two or three which had 
belonged to her mother, of some thin, black 
material, and coaxed her into having her hair 
fixed under a bandeau of narrow black velvet, in- 
stead of letting it fly loose in a monstrous mass 
of elf-locks over her neck and shoulders — until 
at last she began herself to take some interest in 
what effected such an alteration in her appear- 
ance, particularly when she noticed her guar- 
dian’s pleased and approving looks. Sometimes 
of the flowers left from decorating her little 
shrine, upon which she religiously placed fresh 
ones every morning, she would of her own 
accord stick a spray of white jessamine under 
her bandeau , or a trailing stem of clematis, 
which mingled its pure delicate blossoms with 
the raven blackness of her hair, with pretty 
effect, which showed, with many other little 


182 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


tilings, that her womanly instincts and tastes 
were developing. 

As usual in her intercourse with the young peo- 
ple in whose society she was now frequently thrown 
Lucia found many rough places to go over. Some 
of them were disagreeable to her in the extreme, 
some were dull and awkward, some ignorant and 
impertinent, others of them haughty and super- 
cilious — and, unfortunately for her, her percep- 
tions of character were too keen, and she was too 
inexperienced in the ways of the world for her 
to be able to accept and make the best of people 
as she found them. It was up-hill work with 
her most of the time, but effort of the right sort 
is never fruitless, even if unsuccessful : it acts as 
a tonic on the moral nature, and proves a whole- 
some discipline to the heart. ButL^ijcda did not 
understand all this; she was (qnly'guidedj / by her 
conscience and that instinctive principle of true 
politeness which ever leads one to put himself in 
another’s place and do unto him as he would be 
done by, without analyzing cause, effect or prin- 
ciples; but she was just as surely preparing her- 
self for the evil days that were to come as if she 
had foreseen them. 

When her brother was absent, Mrs. Yellott 
never spared Lucia when she co^ld sting, mor- 
tify or hurt her before strangers as 4 well as ac- 
quaintances. Sometimes the irascible child 
flared out in sudden revolt, which would astonish 
all present, and exhibit her in a most unami- 
able light; sometimes, restraining herself, she 
would grow silent and disagreeable; sometimes, 
stung beyond endurance, she would set Mrs. 
Yellott at defiance, and go on laughing and 
chatting as if indifferent to her apparently well- 
meant remonstrances and reproofs. 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


183 

One day, it was a Saturday, Lucia had been 
sorely tried, not only by Mrs. Yellott, but by 
Frank, who slily and persistently chaffed her 
whenever be came near her, until at last it be- 
came unbearable — and in a fury, her cheeks 
scarlet, her eyes flashing their angriest fires, she 
spoke her mind, heedless who heard her, in a 
manner neither complimentary nor agreeable to 
mother and son. Forgetting herself in her wild 
excitement, she broke out into Creole Spanish, 
which was of course unintelligible to all present; 
but not so the scorn and passion in her face, or 
her expressive gestures, which made her mean- 
ing as well understood as if she had spoken 
English. They had never seen her like this be- 
fore, and it literally frightened both mother and 
son into silence: they had hunted her to bay; 
they had raised the storm, and were the first to 
cower before its violence. 

Then, with a sudden revulsion of feeling, she 
turned from them all, and flying up to her room 
she locked herself in and threw herself prone 
upon the floor at the foot of her oratory, where 
she lay almost lifeless, exhausted by her violent 
emotions, and humiliated to the dust by the 
thought that all her good resolves had proved 
as weak as ropes of sand against a stormy tide. 
Then she remembered that they were all to go 
that evening to St. Inigoes to confession, the 
plan being to accept Father Januison’s invita- 
tion to spend the night there, that they might 
be able to receive Holy Communion the follow- 
ing morning at his early Mass without distrac- 
tion; for it was the Feast of the Assumption, a 
feast of particular devotion to the congregation 
of the old church at St. Inigoes. But how could 


184 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


she go? She would be as ashamed to lift her 
head before them all, not through fear of her 
enemies, but through shame of her sin — through 
the humiliation of her fall. While these and 
other painful thoughts passed through her mind 
there came a rap at the door, and Maum Chloe’s 
voice aroused her. 

“What is it?” she asked. 

“ Come, chile !” said the faithful old creature, 
“dey’s all down to dinner, and Mars’ Allan he’s 
in a pucker about you; so come down, honey; if 
you doesn’t you’ll be too late to go over yonder; 
dey’s all gwine to start directly after dinner.” 

“I will come in a minute; go down and tell 
Mr. Brooke so,” she answered softly; then bath- 
ing her face and smoothing her hair she ran 
down to the dining room, where her guardian 
met her with outstretched hand. 

“Not one of your bad head-aches, I hope, 
Lucia?” he said noticing her swollen eyes and 
the dark rings under them. 

“No; it’s one of my other kind of bads,” she 
answered, loud enough for them all to hear — 
fearless of them, and troubled only by her con- 
science. 

“Oh, dear me!” thought Mrs. Yellott, in 
alarm. “I do hope she won’t tell Allan about 
it; he’ll be sure to blame me and Frank, and I 
do hate explanations.” “Lucia,” she said, in 
her most amiable tones, “let me persuade you 
to eat a plate of this delicious soup.” 

“Thanks — yes,” she answered quietly; then 
Mrs. Yellott began to talk to her brother enthu- 
siastically about a night-blooming cereus which 
Bligh had assured her would be in full flower 
the following night, and how crazy she was to 


ZOIS’S DAUGHTER. , 1 85 

see it; and Bligh had told her the perfume was 
so strong that it could be smelt across the river — 
until he, always interested in his rare flowers, 
and now diverted by her exaggerated way of 
talking, forgot all about Lucia and her “bads. ” 

After their return to “Haylands,” where there 
happened to be no guests that Sunday, for a 
wonder, and Mrs. Yellott having nothing better 
to occupy her mind, thought that now would be 
the time and opportunity to say a few things to 
Lucia which her conscience urged her to; so after 
dinner she stepped into Lucia’s room, and found 
her sitting by the vine-covered window reading 
a book of sacred “Legends of the Madonna,” in 
a very tranquil frame of mind. After closing 
the door, Mrs. Yellott took a seat on the bedside, 
and told Lucia that she had “ come to speak to 
her as a friend about something which had given 
her much pain, but about which she felt a deli- 
cacy in speaking.” 

Astonished, Lucia closed her book, and lifting 
her great black eyes to Mrs. Yellott’ s face, 
awaited to hear what the “something” might 
be, in silence. 

“ I hope that you will not be angry with me, 
Lucia, as what I am going to say is for your 
good, and I feel it to be a duty to speak out. I 
notice, Lucia, that you go to Confession and 
Communion very regularly, as regularly as I do 
myself, and I have been perfectly scandalized by 
it, knowing as well as I do how unfit you must 
be, from your awful temper, to approach the 
Sacraments. I don’t see how you could dare go 
this morning, after your behavior yesterday. It 
seems like a perfect mockery of holy things for 
such a passionate, self-willed, dreadful child to 
receive Holy Communion.” 


i86 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘That is the very reason I go, Mrs. Yellott,” 
spoke out Lucia, as if inspired. “I go to try 
and be made better.” 

“But I don’t see that you try to be made or do 
better; so you’d better stay away until you are 
truly penitent — then there’ll be some hope for 
you. I declare it makes me tremble to see you 
receive the ‘Bread of Life,’” said the merciless 
woman. 

Here was a confusing thought, presented under 
serious aspects to Lucia’s mind, always so sensi- 
tively alive to her own shortcomings. “She 
was not fit,” she was told, “to approach the 
Sacraments;” and how was she to become fit if 
she stayed away ? It struck like iron into her 
soul; she had never had such a thought before, 
but had gone ever trustingly and with simplicity 
of purpose to get the crumbs falling from the 
Master’s table to satisfy the hunger and faintness 
of her soul. But now that it was set before her 
in this new light, it did seem wrong and presum- 
ing for her, who was so passionate and wilful, to 
go to Holy Communion; it was like a sham and 
pretence — and she had nothing to say, but sat 
white and dumb before her accuser, feeling as if 
the very props of her life had given way from 
under her. 

“I am afraid, Lucia,” continued Mrs. Yellott, 
“that you do not make honest confessions. You 
should search your heart ‘ as with lamps,’ and 
bring up all its secret sins, that your confessor 
may know your conscience and how to counsel 
you. I mean all this for your good, my dear, 
and I hope you are not offended at what I say.” 

“You can say what you please, Mrs. Yellott,” 
answered Lucia, huskily, while her very lips were 
white from the moral shock she had received. 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


187 


u Ancl I trust,” went on the pious lady, “that 
you’ll lay the advice I give you to heart, for it is 
a very, very serious matter. Now— excuse me 
for interrupting you — I must run and hear the 
children their Catechism.” 

A few minutes later she heard Mrs. Yellott 
giving orders for the open carriage to be brought 
round at five o’clock; then she heard her rating 
Fanchette severely for not having plaited the 
ruffles of Mamie’s white lawn dress. 

Lucia’s head began to ache furiously, she de- 
clined driving, and remained in her room think- 
ing and thinking, until what with the pain and 
throbbing in her temples and the horrible tumult 
raised in her mind by Mrs. Yellott, she was 
nearly in a state of delirium; she could make 
nothing of it all, except that she was a wretch 
too miserable to live. She took no tea, and slept 
but little that night; but she resolved upon some- 
thing which gave her some little comfqrt, and 
which with characteristic courage she carried 
into execution. 

The next morning Lucia’s chair was empty 
when the family assembled for breakfast, and 
Allan Brooke sent for Maum Chloe to inquire if 
she was sick. 

Maum Chloe told her master that Lucia had 
started at sunrise to go to St. Inigoes. Mrs. 
Yellott winced, but did not speak. Allan Brooke 
frowned at first, then his brow cleared, and he 
said : 

“It is a lovely morning. Lucia doubtless 
wished to avoid the heat. I do not suppose that 
she has gone as far as St. Inigoes, but to 
‘ Buckrae. ’ It is time, however, she w:s back. 
Did she take flowers?” 


i88 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


“I don’t think she did, Mars’ Allan.” 

“Oh, well; see, Maumy, that she has a com- 
fortable lunch and a cup of hot coffee when she 
comes; it’s a good antidote for malaria, and 
there’s plenty of that in the air now,” he an- 
swered. 

“’Deed I will, Mars’ Allan. ’Pears to me dat 
chile’s got more’n common to trouble her mind, ” 
said Chloe, shaking her head. 

“She’s a very old-fashioned little one, Maumy. 
Give me another cup of coffee, Ellen, and tell 
Lucia when she comes, will you, to be ready to 
ride on horseback with me this afternoon?” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed, I’ll tell her; but hadn’t she 
better go in the carriage with me? It might 
jolt her head too much to go on horseback,” 
asked Mrs. Yellott, who had promised Lucia’s 
pony to Frank. 

“Nonsense, no!” replied her unsuspecting 
brother; “it will do her head good. You 
women are always on the qui vive for trouble, it 
seems to me.” 

“Trouble would come all * the same if we 
didn’t, Allan; and it’s best to be prepared for it,” 
said Mrs. Yellott, with a sigh. 

“What’s in the wind, now, Ellen?” he asked, 
looking up. 

“Nothing. 4 You men are so suspicious. I 
was only speaking in general terms,” she said. 

“Oh, generalities never amount to much,” he 
said, laughing, as he rose from the table, and 
pulled one of Mamie’s long flaxen curls, as he 
went by her on his way out. 

It was true, Lucia had gone to St. Inigoes, to 
pour out the perplexities and sorrows of her 
heart to Father Jannison — the best and safest 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 1 89 

thing she could have done. The experienced 
pastor comprehended the situation without dif- 
ficulty, but in the goodness and purity of his 
heart he neither imputed malice nor any wrong 
motive to Mrs. Yellott; he only thought her 
over-zealous and extremely injudicious in at- 
tempting to tamper with a conscience like 
Ivticia’s. It was like playing with edged tools or 
fire, the consequences of which are rarely under- 
stood until the mischief is done and irreparable. 

“God bless you, my dear child, for coming to 
your old father to help you,” he said, laying his 
hand on her head as she knelt, bowed and weep- 
ing, beside his great chair. u Mrs. Yellott means 
well, but she’s one of that good sort of Chris- 
tians who think that everybody must be gov- 
erned by the same rules that regulate themselves. 
Now suppose, my child, that you were very ill, 
or had a grievous sore that threatened the loss of 
a leg, an arm, or even life itself, would you go 
and be such a simpleton as to wait for it to get 
well before you saw a doctor or took his rem- 
edies? Now you are just exactly in that fix, my 
lamb; you’ve got this temper that you are al- 
ways grieving over — you are proud, you are wil- 
ful, and you are this, that, and the other — but 
what are you to do? There is only one help for 
you, and that is in the sacraments; the more you 
need them, the oftener you must come — for there, 
my little one, is the balm of Gilead for your 
hurts, and the Great Physician who will make 
you whole. If you stay away, waiting to be 
more worthy to approach Him, you may perish. 
So don’t mind what people may say; but if you 
keep falling, get up and keep coming, that’s all, 
and by and by you will be strong and able to 


190 ZOIC’S DAUGHTER. 

walk upright and find yourself with strength to 
fight, with God’s help and the help of the 
Blessed Virgin, your battles. So be comforted, 
and have courage, my child, I say.” 

And so Lucia was comforted, and went away 
with the good priest’s blessing like a staff to lean 
upon. She stopped at “Buckrae” to say her 
Rosary at her mother’s grave, and cry her fill be- 
side it — that precious grave, now canopied over 
with passion-flowers, with the scarlet trumpet 
flower festooning the old tree above it, making 
the air seem full of tongues of flame as its pen- 
dant blossoms hung trembling over the sacred 
spot in wild luxuriance. 

On the following Sunday, when Mrs. Yellott 
learned that Lucia had gone very early through 
mist and rain to St. Inigoes, to receive Holy 
Communion, she came to the conclusion that she 
was the most case-hardened being she had ever 
known. She would scarcely have credited it 
had she not heard it from her brother, who hav- 
ing met Lucia in the hall at a very early hour, 
had protested against her exposing herself to the 
miasma with which the foggy air was reeking, 
until he learned her purpose, when he allowed 
her to go, with many forebodings, knowing how 
dangerous it was at this season of the year to be 
exposed either to morning dampness or evening 
1 dews. Mrs. Yellott was non-plussed and worried, 
and began to despair of getting a hold 011 Lucia 
in any way, either to manage or intimidate her; 
then she wisely made up her mind to study her 
character more closely, and watch and wait, as 
such people always watch and wait, ready like 
cats springing upon unwary mice or birds, tear- 
ing their flesh and grinding their bones, to come 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


I 9 I 

with sudden swoop upon their prey when the op- 
portunity arrives. And so a sort of truce fol- 
lowed; a hollow one ’ tis true, but it gave some 
respite to Lucia from the thousand nameless ex- 
asperations to which she had been constantly sub- 
ject heretofore; a respite which was not peace, 
for to a nature ever longing for human affec- 
tion and approval like hers, it was a pain in itself 
to feel that she was an object of dislike. 

But everybody’s time at “Haylands” was 
much taken up nowadays in visiting and receiv- 
ing company; in excursions up and down the 
river; in fishing parties, horseback rides and 
drives; in “high teas,” followed by dancing, 
and occasional picnics — which altogether stirred 
the county up, making it gayer than it had ever 
been since the old times when the Ramseys 
lorded it over the land. In a measure Lucia en- 
joyed it all, for she had formed some pleasant ac- 
quaintances; and her guardian never lost sight 
of her wherever they might be, to see that she 
was pleasantly surrounded, that she was comfort- 
able, and danced to her heart’s content. Some- 
times it was her mood not to join in these inno- 
cent pleasures, and when her guardian found out 
how it was with her, lie would not have her 
urged or worried about going, but excused her to 
their well-meaning friends in a way that left 
nothing more to be said. Some of her happiest 
moments were spent with Maum Chloe, either 
down at her cottage, reading over the famous 
speech aloud to her gratified listener until she 
knew it almost by heart, or sitting with her in 
her own room looking at the pictures in the old 
Bible, and reading about them to her. This 
awoke in Lucia’s poetic mind a strong love for 


192 


ZOiv’S DAUGHTER. 


sacred history, and nothing delighted her more 
than to read of the days when the angels of God 
were the companions of men — when He revealed 
His will to patriarchs and prophets in visions of 
the night, and led His people, “a pillar of cloud 
by day and fire by night.” The dramatic, he- 
roic, and exalted character of all she read kin- 
dled her soul to the greatest enthusiasm, some- 
times filling her with high resolves, often moving 
her to passionate tears by the simple yet deep 
pathos of the narrative she pored over. Child 
as she was, she read over and over again those 
portions of Holy Writ that most pleased her, not 
from any spiritual or theological desire to examine 
into the mysteries or meaning of the inspired 
books, to follow the prophecies or cavil at what 
she could not understand — she was too young for 
that; she simply read because there was a high, 
holy, and poetic charm in them which harmon- 
ized with something in her nature, awed her 
soul, and satisfied her imagination. So she and 
Chloe would sit for hours going over the story 
of Joseph or Esther, or the exodus of the Is- 
raelites out of Egypt, or the grand poem of Job, 
or the soul-touching incidents related in the Gos- 
pels, or the terrible visions of the Apocalypse, 
until the night would come down upon them, 
when the great old book would be closed, and, 
hugged close to Maum Chloe’ s bosom, be carried 
back and placed reverently upon the antique 
stand where it had rested for nearly a century 
and a half.* 

At last November came, crisp and golden; 
there had been a black frost; the ripened leaves 


*The real experience of a child. 


zoe’s daughter. 




of the woods were in their gala attire of crim- 
son, russet, and yellow; the last butterflies of 
the season in their dazzling coats of orange and 
yellow, held court with the droning bees around 
the rich autumnal flowers; the birds warbled 
their last and sweetest farewell songs; fires were 
lit upon the hearths at “Haylands” morning 
and night, and there was a general note of prep- 
aration going on for the winter, which would 
soon come “to his own again.” 

Mrs. Yellott was packing up to go to her home 
in New York, and place her young people at 
school; and Allan Brooke hoped in liis heart 
that she would — he was too proud to hint at 
such a thing himself — invite Lucia to spend her 
winter with her, to give her an opportunity of 
enjoying those educational advantages which he 
so much desired for her, and. which she just at 
this critical time of her life so much needed. 
But that worldly-wise woman abstained from the 
slightest hint of any such arrangement, although 
she was well aware that her brother was in ex- 
treme perplexity as to what he should do with 
Lucia that winter, and what plan he should 
adopt for her education. The time was drawing 
near when his political duties would oblige him 
to go to Washington. Congress would meet on 
the first Monday of December; he could not take 
her with him — he had no establishment there : 
and if he had, she was entirely too young to 
preside over it or be left alone with the servants, 
as she would necessarily be in his absence; and 
he could not leave her at “Haylands” without 
companionship. He might engage a governess, 
but suppose she should not be of the right sort, 
and not able to cope with a nature requiring such 
13 


I 94 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


nice management as Lucia’s? He thought it 
over and over until he felt blank and stupid, 
when one morning it suddenly occurred to him 
to sail up to St. Inigoes and consult Father Jan- 
nison on the subject. 

There was a long, grave talk over the matter 
in Father Jannison’s little library, the upshot of 
which was that Lucia should be sent to the Vis- 
itation Convent in Georgetown to be educated; 
and Allan Brooke went back to “Haylands” 
exultant at so easy and in every way desirable a 
solution of his difficulties. 

“ How strange I did not think of it ! it’s the 
very thing for my poor little girl; the influences 
and advantages of the place will leave nothing 
to be wished for in her religious, moral, or intel- 
lectual culture. I’m afraid tho’ she won’t like 
it — but she must go. There I can see her at 
least once a week, attend to her wants, and bring 
her away if she is unhappy ! It’s the very 
thing!” he thought todiimself, as he sailed down 
the bright beautiful river toward “Haylands.” 

“But when he got to “Haylands,” Lucia 
had gone to “ Buckrae ” in great haste; Jupe 
had sent her word that “ Bruce,” the old hound, 
was dying, and nothing could keep her; she got 
one of the men to row her across in a periogue , 
for she had a feeling that it would comfort the 
faithful old hound to feel her hand upon his head 
and hear her voice once more — as it seemed to 
do, for when she leaned over him, smoothing 
him lightly, and talking to him in pitying ac- 
cents, he wagged his tail feebly, and raising up 
his head with a faint effort licked her hand; then 
the bleared sightless eyes closed, there was a faint 
quick electric shudder, and it was all over. 


ZQ&’S DAUGHTER. 


*95 


If the principle of life that animates the forms 
of our brute friends is capable of intelligence 
after its departure therefrom, we are sure that 
Bruce is happy in some far-off canine heaven in 
company with the dog of Ulysses, “old dog 
Tray,” and other famous dogs of song and story. 


196 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

LUCIA GOES AWAY FROM “HAYLANDS.” 

“Farewell, iny dear; I hope we shall be 
better friends when we meet again,” said Mrs. 
Yellott, as she touched Lucia’s cheek with a cold 
kiss, before getting into the carriage which was 
to convey herself add family to the mail station, 
ten miles away. “I’m very sorry we never 
found time to go to Baltimore.” 

“Good-bye, ma’acn,” was all that Lucia said, 
as she submitted to the icy caress with equal 
coldness. The children chaffed her to the last 
by pretending to condole with her on having to 
to live all the winter by herself at “ Haylands,” 
with “nobody but Maum Chloe and the nig- 
gers,” while they would be enjoying parties, 
dancing-school frolics, sleighing, theatres, and 
all sorts of charming things in New York. 

“You’ll have to send for old Jupe and his 
white wig to come and fiddle for you, Lucia; I 
would if I were you,” was the last thing Frank 
Yellott said. 

“So I shall, whenever I want him,” she re- 
torted, with an angry flash of her eyes. 

But that was the end of it, for at that moment 
the carriage was driven off down the broad ave- 
nue, the children waving their handkerchiefs 
from the windows, and hurraing as they rolled 
swiftly away, leaving Lucia full, not of regrets, 
but of a sensation of immense relief. 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


19 7 


Allan Brooke accompanied them on horseback, 
and when he returned, Lucia, with a light wool- 
len shawl around her, was lying back in one of 
the big Japanese chairs at the south end of the 
veranda, basking in the sunshine while she read. 

Her guardian had said nothing either to Mrs. 
Yellott or herself in relation to sending her to 
the Convent in Georgetown; in fact he had 
shrunk from naming the subject at all, feeling 
altogether uncertain of the effect it would have 
upon her. But the time had come for it to be 
done; he was going to Washington in about a 
week, and it was necessary for him to know at 
least what Lucia thought of it. So after laying 
down his riding-whip and hat, he sat down by 
her saying: 

“Well, they are safely off. They sent love 
and all that, Lucia. 

“Yes, sir; thanks!” she answered quietly, as 
she put aside her book. 

“I’m afraid it will be very lonesome now; 
they were so full of life and spirits,” he began, 
“and kept the house in such a stir.” 

“I am never lonesome, Mr. Brooke; I have so 
much to think about.” 

“ What a little philosopher she is, to be sure ! ” 
interrupted her guardian, with a laugh. 

“I mean, Mr. Brooke, about things I read of; 
then my music takes up a great deal of my time; 
and there’s the river, and all the beautiful places 
around ‘ Haylands,’ that I’d rather look at when 
the sun is low down than to talk: and our sails, 
and drives, and my pony; then you know my 
visits over yonder, and — and — I was going to ask 
you, Mr. Brooke, to let my phaeton be brought 
over,” she said, speaking eagerly. 


198 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


“To be sure, my child; why did you not ask 
for it before? ” 

. “ Because, sir, it only holds two, and I thought 
— I was afraid it would seem selfish,” she an- 
swered, hesitatingly. 

“Yes; I did not think of that, my dear. But * 
how will it be when I am gone ? I have to leave 
in a few days, to be gone seven or eight months, 
for this is the long session of Congress; and I 
am loth to even think of you being here alone.” 

A shadow crept over Lucia’s face, and the 
light faded out of her eyes. She had not thought 
of that. 

“And I have been thinking, my child,” con- 
tinued her guardian, “that it is high time for 
your education to be systematically attended to, 
for which purpose I have made inquiries, and 
have heard of a school where you will have 
every advantage that I could desire for you.” 

“Is it very far off?” she asked, in a low tone, 
while every vestige of color faded out of her 
face. 

“Oh, no; the school I speak of is conducted 
by the Visitation Nuns of the Convent in 
Georgetown.” 

“A convent! Oh, Mr. Brooke, don’t send me 
to a convent! I never was in one in my life; but 
they look like gloomy prisons to me! I remem- 
ber one at Havana, with high stone walls and 
grated windows, and it always made me afraid 
when our carriage drove by it.” 

Then Allan Brooke told her the why and the 
wherefore of his plans, and she only interrupted 
him once, to ask if “Mrs. Yellott knew about 
it,” feeling much relieved when he assured her 
that he had never named the subject to her. 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 


199 


When Lncia understood how absolutely neces- 
sary it was for her present as well as her future 
to go — that she would see her guardian once or 
twice a week, and should be withdrawn from 
the convent if she was not happy — she said : “I 
will go, Mr. Brooke. When shall we be ready 
to start?” 

“On Monday week, my child. I must be in 
Washington a few days before the 1st of Decem- 
ber. You shall not go immediately to the Con- 
vent. I will take you to be introduced to the 
Sisters, and we’ll go over the house; then we’ll 
drive about for a day or two and see the sights 
in Washington ; perhaps you will not regularly 
enter until after the Christmas holidays.” 

Lucia’s face brightened up once more as she 
listened to his plans, and then on a sudden came 
one of her quick emotional revulsions: the 
brightness died out of her face, and the old, sor- 
rowful, weary look came over it. 

“What is it, Lucia?” he asked, ever quick to 
note the changes in her countenance; “ there 
must be no secrets between us, my dear.” 

“No, sir” — in a low voice — “I was only 
thinking of my darling’s grave over there. Who 
will watch it and lay flowers upon it when I am 
gone ? Oh, Mr. Brooke, it will be so desolate 
for her to be lying all alone there, as if she were 
listening and waiting for me to come, and I so 
far away. ’ ’ 

“ Lucia, I have been thinking of all that, my 
dear. I will tell you what we can do. We can 
leave the care and decoration of that spot, so 
dear to us both, to Bligh and Mauin Cliloe — or 
Jupe, if you prefer it — and I will give strict or- 
ders to have your wishes executed to the letter. 


200 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


Bligh has been in my service twenty-two years 
now, and I have never once known him to for- 
get or neglect an order; in short, he is a most 
faithful servant, and does even more than he 
promises. Now tell me, 1/ucia, what you wish 
done. ’ ’ 

“I would rather Jupe should have the care of 
it than Maum Chloe; not that I don’t love her 
dearly — she’s been very good to me — but there’ll 
be times when she can’t get across. But Jupe, 
he’s always there; and he’s one of the family — 
the last of the old servants.” 

“ You are right; but how about Bligh?” 

“Oh, yes, Mr. Brooke! I know that Bligh will 
take the flowers, and keep everything nice and 
trimmed up, but — you know — oh, Mr. Brooke, 
Bligh swears so dreadfully! Do you think he’d 
curse and swear over there? ” she asked, flush- 
ing up and speaking rapidly. 

“No — I think not, Lucia, if I speak to him 
about it. He’s got a soft, kind heart under his 
tough, wrinkled skin. I’ll have a talk with 
him.” 

“And” — hesitating, her eyes cast down, and 
her fingers nervously twining in and out of the 
long fringe of her shawl — “ I’d like to have some 
money — my darling’s money, Mr. Brooke — to 
give away before I go. You don’t know how 
good they’ve all been to me.” 

“Certainly, my dear. Will to-morrow do ? ” 

“Thanks; yes. Thank you too, Mr. Brooke, 
about the Convent. I know very little, and 
know it will be best for me to go to school; only 
if the Convent is like the one in Havana, I fear 
that I shall not be happy to stay there.” 

“You shall not remain a day, I promise you, 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


201 


my child, should you find yourself unhappy 
there. But I think you will like it — at least 
Father Jannison thinks so.” 

u Does he?” she asked quickly.- “ He knows 
me so well — better than any one else — and if he 
thinks so, I’m satisfied.” 

“Bless you, my dear, he first named it to 
me, and recommended the institution in the 
highest terms! His sister is the Superior. But 
come, let us go into tea now — then we’ll have a 
little music,” said Allan Brooke, holding out his 
hand to help Bucia out of the depths of her 
chair, and did not let hers go until they got to 
the tea-table, where Maum Chloe, radiant in her 
gayest Madras turban, a fresh, bright dress, and 
a furbelowed apron, stood behind the coffee urn 
with a look of high satisfaction at being restored 
to her ancient dignities — and laughing all over 
at the thought of having the “Gre’t House ” to 
herself once more, and being undisputed Grand 
High Chamberlain of its affairs, great and small. 

Allan Brooke and Bucia went to St. Inigoes 
very early the following Sunday morning, and 
spent the whole day with Father Jannison, who 
gave Bucia such glowing accounts of the Con- 
vent, the nuns, the pupils, the beautiful grounds, 
and the grand high holidays whenever the 
Archbishop or some distinguished clergyman 
paid a visit there, that Bucia felt quite exhilar- 
ated, and was more than comforted when he 
added that he generally went to Georgetown to 
see his Provincial twice a year — and would come 
and see how she was getting on, she might be 
sure; which so delighted her that she flew across 
the room, snatched up his hand and kissed it, 
then leaned her cheek for a moment upon i\ 


202 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


telling him in Spanish “how happy it made her 
to hear sncli good news.” 

He pinched her ear and made some absurd 
little speech in the same soft musical language, 
which lie spoke fluently — which made her laugh 
merrily, just as he intended it should; then, sat- 
isfied with the result, he renewed his conversa- 
tion with Allan Brooke, Lucia sitting close by 
him, holding his hand and listening, well satis- 
fied to hear the voices of the two friends she best 
loved, although it must be confessed the subjects 
they discussed were beyond her understanding, 
relating entirely to public affairs and some diffi- 
cult questions of political economy about which 
the American mind was at that time agitated. 
This day at St. Inigoes, spent in the society of 
the good priest, and the sail home, by the light 
of a full moon, which made the waves look like 
crinkled gold, and edged the woods with a trem- 
ulous fringe of silver, Lucia always remembered 
as the whitest and fairest day of her life. 

Maum Chloe got into a regular flutter when 
she heard. that Lucia was going away, and after 
the first explosion assuaged her excitement by an 
immediate overhauling of her clothes and an 
investigation of some yet unopened trunks, in 
search of garments which could be altered to fit 
her. “I knowed,” she said, “that Miss Ellen 
warn’t gwine to take ’er to Baltimore to git her 
fixed up when she said she was; she ain’t gwine 
to take trouble with nobody’s children ’cept her 
own. White folks is all mighty onsartain, for 
that matter.” 

The days rolled by swiftly; on the morrow 
Allan Brooke and his ward were going — and the 
/‘Great House ” would be closed for months to 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


203 


come. Chloe’s tears sprinkled Lucia’ s clothes 
as they were packed; not only were her three 
trunks filled with garments of ordinary wear, 
but with party dresses, fine cob-web fabrics, em- 
broidered knee-deep with floss silk and gold 
thread; costly laces, fans, dancing slippers, arti- 
ficial flowers, and jewelry — “to let the people 
up thar see what she come from,” said this proud 
old Maumy to one of the maids who was assist- 
ing her; but all of which would be about as use- 
ful to Lucia at the Convent as they would had 
she been going to the North Pole. 

And when all was finished, the trunks strapped 
and set in the hall, Mauin Chloe got Lucia to 
read “Mars’ Allan’s” precious speech to her 
once more — then brought in the old baize-cov- 
ered Bible for her to tell her about the “pic- 
tures,” and all about Tobit, believing there 
must be some virtue in the sacred narrative for 
weak eyes, and hers were giving way — the old 
woman was beginning to “look dim out of her 
windows;” she would not admit it, but every- 
thing got blurred to her vision now and then, and 
there was nothing she dreaded more than spec- 
tacles. So over and over again through the sum- 
mer she had always chosen to hear the beautiful 
story of Tobit before all others, hoping to coun- 
teract by its sacred influence, the evil “spell” 
that — as she firmly believed — an old Guinea negro 
in the neighborhood had put upon her. 

Lucia had been to “ Buckrae ” in the morn- 
ing, and taken Bligli along with a boat-load of 
flowers, to strew them with loving fingers on her 
mother’s grave, and tell him all that she wished 
him to do in her absence. Then, asking him to 
go and wait for her at Sam Meggs’, she knelt 


204 


i 

ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 

beside it and said her rosary for the everlasting 
rest and refreshment of the departed soul so dear 
to her; then lingering, loth to go, she stooped 
down and kissed the flower-embalmed mound 
with tender, tear-dewed kisses, and went sadly 
away. 

The hearts of Sam Meggs and his wife were 
gladdened by the bright pile of silver dollars 
Lucia left with them when she told them ‘ ‘ good- 
bye” — twenty-five for each; and one might have 
imagined from the way Sam’s eyes expanded 
that two of them, by some hocus-pocus, had got 
suddenly fixed in his sockets, in the place where 
eyes are generally expected to be. Mrs. Meggs 
was not only astonished at Lucia’s generosity, 
but felt so ashamed of herself for all her ill- 
natured speeches about her, and her dislike, that 
she could have hidden her face under her apron; 
she did puff as much smoke out of her pipe as 
she could to veil her compunctious countenance, 
and was glad in her heart to promise Lucia to 
keep the rooms up-stairs “very clean and nice, 
and to move nothing in them; not only that, but 
to see after Jupe if he got sick and couldn’t help 
himself.” 

“She’s got civilized, Sam, bein’ along with 
Americans; that ‘ Deliverus ’ spirit is clean gone 
out’n her, and she’s Ramsey to her marrow,” 
said Mrs. Meggs, examining the broad bright 
silver coins one by one with an air of extreme 
satisfaction after Lucia went away. Sam seemed 
to be rather afraid of his; you know he was 
slow, and it took some time for him to realize 
that this white, glittering pile of money was 
really his own; then, when by a desperate tussle 
with his stagnant brain he did arrive at the de- 


205 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 

sired conclusion, he held a sort of “Tehoo” 
fetisli over them, anointing them with the fumes 
of tobacco until they were hidden from his view 
by the fog he raised; but not his touch, for he 
kept his hand spread over them all the time, as 
if he feared they might fly away; after which he 
dropped them, one by one, into an old woolen 
stocking, ripped open a corner of his husk bed, 
and, stuffing in his treasure, sewed up the rent, 
while his wife was driving up her turkeys. 

Poor old Jupe’s heart was gladdened by a like' 
gift from his “young Missis,” and it so affected 
his emotional nature that he laughed, cried, and 
prayed all together, and throwing himself upon 
his knees at her feet, before she could prevent it, 
lifted the hem of her dress and kissed it. Lucia 
told him to watch her mother’s grave: “It is my 
most precious thing, Uncle Jupe, and I leave it 
in your care. Bligh will fetch flowers from 
‘Haylands’ for it every day; but you — you are to 
take care of it all the time.” 

, “And so I will, little Missis; bless God, I will; 
an’ if I find I’se gwine to die, I’ll crawl thar to 
draw my last breaf. Don’t be afeard of nuthin’ 
hurtin’ that ’s long as I live, honey. I hope 
dem folks you’se gwine to live wid up y.ander ’ll 
take good keer of you; cos you ain’t like com- 
mon, you know, and you got de best blood in de 
country, an’ de oldest, too, in your weins.” 

“Don’t be uneasy about me, Uncle Jupe, I 
shall be treated well, and be happy, too; Father 
Jannison and Mr. Brooke both say so.” 

“Bless God, honey, I hope so.” 

“And don’t you forget to send me some pickled 
oysters at Christmas.” 

“Dat I will, honey, if de oysters don’t all turn 


206 zoe’s daughter. 

to butterflies and fly out’n de bay; de best and 
de biggest I can ketch, I’ll save for yon.” 

Then a grasp of the old black, knobby hand, 
and Lucia went back to “Haylands,” where she 
distributed her farewell gifts to the servants, for- 
getting none, told them good-bye, hurried over 
her tea, and went early to bed, where she had a 
good, refreshing, soothing cry before she fell 
asleep. 

Arrived at Washington, Allan Brooke took 
Lucia to his boarding-house, which was kept by 
a widow lady who had at one time been an orna- 
ment of the first Presidential Court — whose vir- 
tues and intelligence made her no less noted 
than her wit and beauty, and whose ample 
wealth gave her means to assist the unfortunate 
whenever appealed to. But a sudden deprecia- 
tion in the value of real estate, and the unex- 
pected death of her husband, who was engaged 
in some risky speculations by which he hoped to 
retrieve his losses, left her penniless, and she was 
thrown entirely upon her own resources. “I 
haven’t the sort of training that would make me 
a successful teacher,” she said to her friends, 
“nor the patience to keep a 1 dame’s school,’ 
which would barely give me bread: so I shall 
open a first-class boarding-house” — which she 
did. Her house was always filled with choice 
guests, most of them old friends, and it got to be 
a saying in Washington: “If you wish to $ee 
the most select circle in the city, get yourself 
invited to Mrs. Carlton’s.” Clay, Adams, Ran- 
dolph, Sheffy, Burr, Jefferson, and a host of “ the 
giants of those days,” with the ladies of their re- 
spective families, occupied her handsome apart- 
ments, and she presided over her establishment 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


207 


with the energy of an Elizabeth and the grace 
of a Josephine, — not only maintaining her social 
position, but enjoying the genuine respect of the 
whole community. To Mrs. Carlton’s care 
Allan Brooke confided his ward, and with ex- 
quisite tact she soon found her way to Eucia’s re- 
served heart, so that the child, to her own sur- 
prise, began in a day or two to feel at ease and 
quite at home. 

“ Eucia, my child,” said her guardian one 
morning, “Albert got here last night with the 
carriage and horses, and if you have nothing 
else to do we’ll drive round and see what 
is to be seen in this city of magnificent pos- 
sibilities; then we will go to the President’s 
grounds at five o’clock to see the great Indian 
war-dance that the chiefs now here from the far 
West have been invited to perform. Perhaps 
Mrs. Carlton will be so good as to join us?” 

“ Thanks; I will with pleasure, Mr. Brooke. 
What Indians are here?” 

“ Some of Daniel Boone’s old friends, I be- 
lieve — Sioux, Pawnees, and Iroquois, who are 
here to protest against being moved farther West. 
Tecumseh, the famous warrior and orator, i^ 
here too, in behalf of his nation.” 

“Oh, that is charming! I shall be delighted 
to go. Excuse me now — I have my puddings to 
see to,” said Mrs. Carlton, leaving the room. 

Eucia was delighted with her drive and the 
few objects of interest that she saw, but what 
made her more happy than all was the long drive 
on the banks of the fair Potomac, and the view 
of the beautiful fields and wooded slopes on the 
Virginia side, 011 one of which Custis, the grand- 
son of Washington, had just erected a graceful 


208 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


and imposing mansion with pillared porticoes 
and ornamented fa$ade which shone out fair and 
beautiful from the surrounding trees, looking 
like a Grecian temple with the solitude of the 
woods about it, and the broad swift river winding 
about .the foot of the picturesque hill which it 
crowned. 

L/Ucia grew very, very silent as she watched 
the crisp shining waves shimmering and dancing 
in the sunshine, — they seemed to her like the 
beckoning hands of old friends, and were full of 
sweet and bitter memories which bore her away 
to the shaded bluff at “ Buckrae ” where she had 
so often watched the river flashing^ through the 
trees; she remembered how broadly and solemnly 
the shadow of that place of graves lay upon the 
tide below, and she wondered if the low mur- 
muring messages the waves were whispering to 
the sands were not for her. 

It was a great relief to her that not a word 
had yet been said to her about the Convent. It 
would be time enough, she thought, to hear any- 
thing about it when she was ready to enter. 

That afternoon Mrs. Carlton, Allan Brooke 
Snd herself drove up to the President’s, full of 
curiosity to see the Indian war-dance. All the 
fine equipages filled with the fashionables of the 
two cities, Washington and Georgetown, and 
crowds of citizens on foot, men, women and 
children, surrounded the spacious grounds, which 
were then simply inclosed by posts and chains. 
In the centre the Indians were grouped, their 
heads dressed with eagle-feathers and tinselled 
ornaments, their faces brilliantly painted in blue, 
white and vermillion, some of them with neck- 
laces of bear-claws around their necks, some 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


209 


with rows of finger-ends, like dried filberts, 
which they had cut from the hands of their 
enemies slain in battle, some with scalps waving 
from their war-clubs, and each of them wearing 
some trophy of his prowess in war -or chase. 
Their feet were encased in moccasins embroid- 
ered in brilliant colors, while scarlet or blue 
blankets fringed and embroidered with beads 
and porcupine quills were thrown in careless 
and graceful folds around their shoulders. At 
a signal from the chief the dance began, to 
the sound of their own barbaric music, 
slowly and solemnly at first, then increasing 
in rapidity and action, until they appeared 
to be excited to frenzy, brandishing their 
war-clubs and hatchets so near each other’s 
heads that it was a wonder to every one that 
some of them were not killed or wounded, and 
uttering tenific war-whoops, sufficient even there 
in a place of safety to curdle the blood of their 
“pale-faced” audience. At this moment, by 
a simultaneous movement, they dropped their 
blankets, and looking like stalwart, animated 
bronzes, they leaped in wild contortions. But a 
violent shower or an earthquake could not have 
dispersed the gay crowds more suddenly and 
effectually than this unlooked for part of the 
programme; for people were modest in those 
days, and not prepared by the nudities of the 
French ballet and the Fydia Thompson exhibi- 
tions to stand gazing with smiles “both child- 
like and bland” on the exhibition of these naked 
sons ot the forest. There was a precipitate 
sei.noer, and only a few men remained to witness 
the -conclusion of the performance. Mrs. Carlton 
and I/icia were looking at Tecumseh, who stood 


210 


ZOIv’s DAUGHTER. 


talking with the President, and whom Allen 
Brooke had just pointed out to them, when they 
found themselves suddenly whirled away with the 
rest of the flying crowd, and could not imagine 
why, until one or two ladies from Mrs. Carlton’s 
house who were present told her. And when, 
some years later, Fanny Ellsler and Celeste set 
Young America wild by their indelicate dancing 
and posturing, their exposed persons and shame- 
less pirouetting at the theatres, Mrs. Carlton could 
never be prevailed on to go, although she usually 
went everywhere. “No!” she would say, U I 
ran from an Indian war-dance once, — and, from 
all that I can hear, this is worse; and not done 
by untutored Indians, recollect, which aggravates 
the offence to me.” 

The next day being “visiting day” at the 
Convent, Allan Brooke told Lucia after breakfast 
to be ready to go with him to be introduced to 
the directress at two o’clock. 

Her heart sank below zero when her guar- 
dian pointed out the Convent as they approached 
it, — a long, regular, three-storied building, with 
every shutter closed and its cold monotony broken 
only in the centre by the gothic front of the 
chapel. They rang the bell and went into the 
vestibule, where they had but a short time to 
wait; a panel slid back in the door, and the 
portress appeared behind the grate, who received 
their cards and invited them into a small recep- 
tion-room on the left, across one end of which, 
from ceiling to floor, a black grating extended. 
The furniture was simple, everything exquisitely 
clean and neat, and the few pictures on the wall 
were on religious subjects. But that black 
lattice- work conjured up all sorts of gloomy 


zoe’s daughter. 21 1 

pictures in Lucia’s imagination; anything savor- 
ing of bars, bolts, and loss of liberty, was insup- 
portable to her. But just then a door in the 
nuns’ parlor on the other side of the grate was 
opened, and one of the nuns, sweet-visaged and 
slightly bowed with age, passed through on her 
way to some other part of the house, leaving the 
door open after her. A broad stream of sunshine 
flowed in, and Lucia caught a glimpse of exten- 
sive grounds, old trees, and a view of the college 
turrets in the distance; she saw gay groups of 
girls flitting here and there, heard the sound of 
music and singing, and the indistinct murmur of 
voices broken by the merriest peals of laughter; 
her heart grew lighter, and an involuntary 
smile parted her lips. It was their weekly holi- 
day, and the girls were making the most of it. 
The portress stepped in to say that Sister Vero- 
nica was just then engaged, but would be in in 
a few minutes. u Oh,” thought Lucia, with 
trepidation, “I wish it was hours instead of 
minutes ! ” 

A gentleman walked into the parlor after in- 
quiring for one of the pupils, and took his seat 
at the end of the room near the window, first 
raising the blind a little. He evidently loved 
light, and seemed to breathe more freely as he 
caught a glimpse of the outer world. He had 
scarcely settled himself when a young girl about 
fifteen danced into the room, and with an excla- 
mation of delight flung herself into his arms. 
She was a bright, pleasant-looking thing, with 
brown laughing eyes, a nez retrousse and 
dimpled chin, — a very spirit of mischief, as her 
face showed. Then ensued between the two a 
conversation funny beyond anything Lucia had 


212 


zoe’s DAUGHTER. 


ever heard, — for this young woman spoke with- 
out reserve, and in a tone of voice as little sup- 
pressed as if Allan Brooke and Lucia had been 
invisible instead of sitting there in full view. 

“You dear old fellow ! how are you?” 

“Very well. In fact, I am vulgarly healthy 
at present.” 

“I wonder at that, and I not there to take 
care of you, or fix your cravat, or anything, you 
careless boy! Just look there now ! you’ve got 
your collar pinned — the button’s off: you ought 
to be ashamed to be so naughty ! Let me run 
and get a needle and thread, and sew a button 
on for you and fix you up.” 

“Not just here, old lady,” he answered with 
a lazy laugh, looking lovingly at her. 

“What have you been .doing to y r ourself, 
par-pa?” she screamed, gathering up the full 
dark beard that hung over his breast into her 
little slender hand, and sniffing^t it. “Its per- 
fectly awful! as if a milliner had been trying to 
bleach you in sulphur-smoke; and your linen is 
not only touzled under it, but streaked black 
and blue. Oh, I declare if you don’t let me out 
I’ll advertise for a nurse for you, you careless 
child! ” 

“Don’t get excited ; Lally. I’ll tell you all 
about it if you’ll only give me the chance. Now. 
I have been using a lead comb, you know, and 
some sort of a hair- wash; fact is, I thought my 
gray hair looked eccentric on such a youngster’s 
head as mine. Don’t you like it?” 

“No ! I think it’s perfectly awful !” she blurted 
out, looking at his beard and hair with perfect 
disgust. 

“And you like the white hair best?” 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


213 


u Of course I do. Haven’t I been used to see- 
ing it there all my life ! And I’ll never, never 
kiss you again until you get all that horrid stuff 
off And, — oh my ! I declare to gracious ! if 
your hair aiut all streaked with purple and green 
and red, like a church window, so it is ! ” 

He burst out laughing. 

“I found that out this morning, Hally, when I 
went to go through another anointing and comb- 
ing; and remembering that lead and sulphur were 
both poisons that might give me paralysis, as I’m 
about the right age for it, I threw the whole lot 
into the fire.” 

“Not to know that at first — and you a doc- 
tori” she exclaimed, in a most sarcastic, wither- 
ing’ tone. “But I’m glad something brought 
you up all standing. There, don’t cry ! I won’t 
scold any more,” she said, passing her hand 
softly over his eyes, “because I know you’ve 
come to take me home to spend Christmas.” 

His turn had come now: he looked into his 
hat, which he was turning round and round be- 
tween his knees; the whole character of his face 
changed; he did not answer her at once, because 
he could not bear to give her pain; but it came 
at last — a decided “No.” 

“Why?” 

“I got a letter yesterday from Sister Veronica 
telling me there had been no improvement. With 
plenty of capacity for study, it’s nothing but 
chatter and laugh and fun all day,” he replied, 
gravely. 

“Did she tell you about the corner? — how of- 
ten she sticks me there just for one giggle that I 
can’t help? It was horrid of her to write to you 
like that, and I’ve been trying so hard to be good! 
But you ask her, par- pa, and she’ll let me go.” 


214 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


“ But I shan’t ask. You know our bargain. I 
was ready to keep my part of it in good faith; 
you haven’t kept yours, and I don’t feel bound 
to reward you for not keeping up to your prom- 
ise.” He spoke in a lazy, kind sort of away, 
which made it seem that nothing would be 
easier than to break down his resolution; but 
she knew better than that. 

“I don’t care!” she answered, with a defiant 
little laugh. But it was easy to see by the 
swollen veins in her neck, and the tremulous- 
ness of her laughing mouth, that she did care 
very much. 

“Ido,” he answered, still gfavely; “I shall 
miss you greatly, and mope myself half to 
death.” 

“ Ret me come out, then !” 

“No; you must learn to keep your promises 
better, old lady.” 

“I think it was downright mean in Sister 
Veronica ! I was sure she’d send in a good ‘re- 
port’ this time. You don’t know how pious I 
was in the Retreat.” 

“The what?” 

“The Retreat. It is so many days’ praying. 
I wdnt in with the Catholic girls, and I declare 
I prayed all over the house with them yesterday; 
and I said all the prayers for you too, you bad 
boy ! And, after all, for Sister Veronica to go 
and write such a letter ! ” 

“ I don’t know much about such matters; but 
I rather think the praying will do you good, all 
the same.” 

“ No, it won’t ! But I don’t care. How’s the 
Ettrick Shepherd ? ’ ’ 

“In pretty good case, but tied to the bed- 
post.” 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 


215 

“ Oil you cruel, horrid boy ! to tie up my dar- 
ling little Etty ! What did he do ! ” 

u He ate up Mrs. Lawton’s wig.” 

“Oh, gracious! how did he get it?” she 
asked, with a merry laugh., 

“ The other day I thought I’d go in and pay 
them a visit, as I had not called since they came 
to the hotel, and the Ettrick Shepherd followed 
me without my seeing him; then while Mr. 
Lawton and I were talking about Aaron Burr’s 
great speech, he sneaked into Mrs. Lawton’s 
dressing-room where her Parisian wig, dressed 
with flowers, and all curled and frizzled, was 
hanging on the back of a chair — ready to be put 
on for dinner, as I afterwards learned. There 
was no one in the dressing-room: she and her 
maid were in her bed-room debating over a dress, 
and Etty spied this thing with dangling curls 
just within his reach. He sprang up into the 
chair, seized it between his teeth, and, rushing 
through the parlor, disappeared like a flash. ‘I 
do believe,’ said Mr. Lawton, who is near- 
sighted, ‘ that your little terrier has caught a 
rat! the hotel is overrun with them.’ I didn’t 
think it was a rat, but said nothing except that 
‘rats were a great nuisance,’ and took leave as 
soon as I politely could, to go in search of the 
‘gentle shepherd,’ feeling in my bones that he 
had got me into a dreadful scrape. Going 
through the passage, two little children rushed 
up to me, crying out: ‘Oh, Doctor! Etty’s 
caught a big rat, and has got it under the parlor 
sofa, growling and snarling like everything ! ’ I 
was glad to "hear it, and went at him. Sure 
enough there he was, and two waiters punching 
at him with sticks. I called, I whistled, I tried 
to reach him to haul him out — but all to no 


21 6 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


purpose; until finding the situation getting dis- 
agreeable lie broke cover and ran for it, drag- 
ging the tattered wig like a dozen scalps after 
him, and came near being killed before lie was 
caught.” 

“Oh, gracious me! I never heard anything 
so funny in all my life!” said the irrepressible 
Lally, laughing until tears ran over her cheeks. 

“So much for having a ‘Skye terrier’ board- 
ing at a hotel,” said the doctor, smoothing his 
parti-colored beard. 

“Then, tell me — what did you do to him?” 
she asked. 

“I whipped him soundly, and have kepf him 
tied to the bed-post ever since.” 

“Oh, you cruel, horrid boy! to treat a poor 
little innocent thing like that in such a way! 
I'll never speak to you again — and I’ll never, 
never love you any more for doing it. And all 
about an old wig too — that any lady ought to be 
ashamed to wear, if it did cost a hundred dollars! 
She was always giving Etty sly pokes too. I’ve 
seen her do it, and I’m glad he ate the old furbe- 
low up. What did she say?” 

“She had hysterics, and has cut me dead. 
Not only that, they are going to another hotel 
to live.” 

“I’m glad they are,” responded Lally, “but 
never mind; let’s make up, since you’ve had so 
much trouble.” 

At this moment Sister Veronica, a tall stately 
woman, with intellectual features and much dig- 
nity of manner, appeared at the grate, bowed 
and inquired if Mr. Brooke were present. After 
the introductions and salutations were over, and 
she had spoken to several other guests just 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


217 


arrived, shaken hands with the doctor and ex- 
changed a few words in a low voice with him, 
Sister Veronica, the directress of the Academy, 
invited Allan Brooke and Lucia to go through 
the house, where, to Lucia’s surprise, everything 
wore the most sunshiny, cheerful aspect: plenty 
of sweet fresh air; everything exquisitely white 
and clean; and at the extremity of each dormi- 
tory, with its long rows of white-curtained 
alcoves and dimity-covered beds like dove-cotes, 
stood a flower-decked shrine of the Blessed 
Virgin, crowned with garlands of lilies and roses, 
and veiled with spangled lace. Here and there 
she saw one dedicated to Blessed St. Joseph, that 
model of charity, of prudence and silence, hold- 
ing his lilied sceptre in chaste and holy hands, 
ever ready to guard and help souls, as he guarded 
and helped Jesus and Mary. From every win- 
dow Lucia saw a lovely view, and from the one 
in the alcove she was to have, she had just a 
little, bright glimpse of the river. Last of all, 
Sister Veronica conducted them into the chapel, 
which was lighted only by the richly-tinted rays 
that crept through the stained-glass window in 
the rear of the altar, and the lamp of the Sacra- 
ment which hung suspended by silver chains 
from the groined roof, and glimmered like a 
radiant star amid the purple and crimson shad- 
ows brooding over the sanctuary. The altar of 
precious marbles — the gift of a former pupil — 
was decorated with calla lilies, autumnal roses, 
pale and fainting with the fragrance and weight 
of their own bloom, and crimson chrysanthe- 
mums, reminding one by their blood-red hues, 
their bitter-sweet odor, and spicy aroma, of the 
Passion of Jesus and Mary, and of the spices and 


218 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


precious ointments in which they wrapped Him 
in the sepulchre. The tall wax candles — there 
were no shams of tin and gas in those days — 
stood in fair rows in glittering silver candelabras, 
and vases of alabaster and Dresden china com- 
pleted the garniture of the throne of the Real 
Presence. 

Here Lucia felt rested, as if she had suddenly 
found a long-lost home that her heart had ever 
been sighing for; peace filled her soul; the bur- 
den of her fears and prejudices no longer made 
her dread the future; in this silent, holy sanctu- 
ary, before that benign and compassionate 
Presence, it fell from her weary heart, leaving 
but one desire, which was — to come. 

“ When shall we see you again, my child?” 
said Sister Veronica, as they were taking leave, 
her hand resting gently upon Lucia’s shoulder. 

“Very soon I hope, madame. I should like 
to come to-morrow.” 

“What! before the Christmas holidays?” 
asked her guardian. 

“If you please, Mr. Brooke. Indeed that is 
the wish of my heart, since I have seen this 
heavenly place,” she said earnestly, speaking in 
Spanish. 

“ If you wish it, my child, certainly !” he an- 
swered — ever kind, and thinking only of her 
happiness. “ I will bring her to you to-morrow, 
Sister Veronica; but she will have to be kept 
very comfortable; she is a tropical bird, you 
know.” And so it was arranged that Lucia was 
to enter the following day, to take up her abode 
under the roof where the happiest and most tran- 
quil years of her life were spent. 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


219 


CHAPTER XV. 

CONVENT LIFE. 

“Who is she? ” 

“What an odd-looking girl ! ” 

“ She looks like a quadroon ! ” 

“South American, perhaps,” 

“When did she come ? ” 

“ How funnily she’s dressed !” 

‘ ‘ Did you ever see such eyes ! ’ ’ 

Such were the questions rapidly asked of one 
another by the girls grouped about in the play- 
room, as Sister Veronica, holding Lucia by the 
hand, passed thro’. Some of them were busy 
over scraps of fancy work, with their little red 
morocco trunks filled with worsteds, floss-silks, 
spools, needles and pieces of embroidery beside 
them; others were grouped around two of the 
nuns, listening to interesting convent anecdotes 
of the time when their mothers were here at 
school; while others, most of them first-class 
girls whose school days were nearly over, 
gathered around one of their number, “just in,” 
who was giving them a glowing description of a 
recent ball given by the English Minister, Mr. 
Fox, at which her sister was present. 

“What a fright that child is!” she stopped 
long enough to say, as Lucia went by them. 
“Well, as I was telling you there was the great- 
est excitement as to whom Mr. Fox would open 
the ball with. Every lady invited expected to 


220 


ZOlPs DAUGHTER. 


be the chosen one, and made the grandest pre- 
parations to outshine all the rest in the splendor 
of her toilette. Nothing else was talked of, or 
discussed — and what after all happened?” 

“What?” “What?” “WhcTdid he open 
the ball with?” “Perhaps he didn’t dance at 
all?” were the eager exclamations that arose. 

“Yes, he did; but he invited that lame little 
Miss Wood, who’s ugly and pock-marked, and 
always shabbily dressed, and looked shabbier 
than ever that evening by contrast, to open 
the ball with him! They do say that some of 
the ladies fainted; many thought it a good joke; 
while there were still others, who had been in a 
fever of expectation for weeks, who declared ‘ it 
was shameful,’ and abused poor Jane Wood, and 
ridiculed the high- heeled shoes which she is 
obliged to wear to make her walk evenly — for 
you know one of her legs is much shorter than 
the other; and oh, they were perfectly furious.” 

The girls laughed as only merry, healthy 
school-girls, just on the verge of the world’s 
“promised land,” can laugh, expressing at the 
same time their opinions very freely for and 
against Mr. Fox’s strange selection, when an old 
nun, standing near the group, with two or three 
children clinging to her hands, who had invol- 
untarily heard the anecdote, observed: 

“ It showed a good heart and the finest tact in 
Mr. Fox, I* think. The world’s people set us 
Christians good lessons sometimes.” 

The girls did not argue the point with Sister 
Angelica, because they regarded her as an au- 
thority in such matters, she having visited For- 
eign Courts and been introduced as the daughter 
of the American Minister, accredited by his 


221 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 

Government once to France and once to St. 
James’, where she was admired for her grace, 
beauty, and intelligence. Her father, on his re- 
turn home, had held successively the high posi- 
tions of Senator, Vice-President, and Judge of 
the Supreme Court, and she had presided over his 
elegant establishment, the fairest and brightest 
star of the Republican Court, until to the sur- 
prise of all, and in opposition to every argument 
urged against it by her father — who was deeply 
grieved — and a large circle of friends and rela- 
tives, she retired from the world, obedient to the 
grace of a sacred vocation which bade her leave 
all for the love of Christ, that she might unite 
herself for time and eternity to that glorious and 
glittering army of “virgins who follow the 
Lamb whithersoever He goeth,” and to whom 
alone the high privilege is given. 

Sister Angelica in her sweet humility never 
referred in the remotest manner to her brilliant 
past, but the little on dit about Mr. Fox touched 
and impressed her as something so extraordi- 
narily chivalrous and kind, that involuntarily 
she commented on it, then went away with the 
exacting little girls, who never ceased pleading, 
and nestling close about her to compel her atten- 
tion to their insignificant affairs, her tender con- 
science wounded and disturbed for having rec- 
ognized for an instant, even by a few words, the 
ways of the world, from which she had been so 
long separated. Soon after Rally Chesney came 
dancing in, her bright face dimpling with smiles; 
and looking around in quest of the merriest 
party to join, made her way towards this, evi- 
dently full of news. 

“Did you see the new girl?” she asked first 
tiling. 


222 


ZOE^S DAUGHTER. 


“What new girl — a scrub-girl?” 

“Were you a scrub-girl, Nanny Doyle, when 
you first came? I mean the little girl in black, 
who came thro’ here just now with Sister 
Veronica.” 

“ Yes,” answered one; “who is she?” 

“I’ll tell you. She’s a Spanish girl, and 
Senator Brooke of Virginia is her uncle, or 
brother, or something — and I’ve just come out 
of the clothes-room, where I had to darn a horrid 
old pair of stockings for talking in studies, and I 
saw her trunks unpacked — and, oh my ! I never 
saw such splendid things in my life ! and Sister 
Philly’s in such a stew over them as you never 
heard of. I believe she’s Cinderella.” 

“When will Cinderella wear her finery, I’d 
like to know? Perhaps she thinks we have a 
ball here every week !” asked Miss Doyle, with 
an air of haughty sarcasm. 

“ I wish we could ! I could enjoy it for one — 
and I’d borrow some of that finery to wear,” 
laughed Lally. 

“ What did Sister Philly say?” 

“ She didn’t say much; but if you had only 
seen her looks as she unfolded the finery — -oh, I 
never saw such laces and embroideries and beau- 
tiful things in all my life ! She must be awfully 
rich ! Sister Philly frowned and tchut-ed over 
them until I thought she’d wear the end of her 
tongue off, then she packed them all up in two 
of the trunks — oh, it made me awfully sorry to 
see such lovely things buried, or as well as 
buried — and sent for Pat to take them up to the 
store- room. ‘ Such nonsense, ’ said Sister Philly, 
1 to send such things here ! I wonder who in 
the world packed her trunks? Not a single use- 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


223 


ful dress hardly, and all the underclothes so 
ftirbelowed that our laundresses wpuld get dis- 
tracted over them ! ’ Then there was a , ‘ con- 
sult’ with Sister Veronica, and they’re going to 
get her some plain black merino dresses and 
things like ours, only she’s in black, they say 
for her mother, and can’t wear the uniform. I 
heard her play on the piano, too, and she’s far 
ahead of any of us.” 

“Speak for yourself, Miss Chesney,” said the 
young lady who was considered the best pianist 
in the academy. 

“I do; and for all the rest, to save trouble, 
you know,” answered the irrepressible girl. 

“Poor little thing! Did you say she was a 
Senator’s daughter?” asked one of the large 
girls. 

“No; niece, I believe; any way she’s a stranger, 
and I think we ought to be kind to her,” said 
Lallv Chesney. 

“She’ll have to take her chance, as we all 
did,” said one of the first-class girls laughing. 
“We’ll have no favoritism here; you know that, 
Dally Chesney.” 

“I know she won’t be here nearly s\x years 
before she graduates, and then have to be pulled 
thro’ by the skin of her teeth — so there, Ally 
Wade,” retorted the saucy girl, as she danced 
away singing, “I am so fond of pleasure that I 
won’t be a nun,” much to the amusement of her 
companions, who all more or less stood in a little 
awe of Ally Wade, on account of her seniority 
and her airs, and enjoyed heartily the sharp 
answer she got. 

Ducia passed tliro’ the usual examinations — 
was assigned to low classes, except in music; in 


224 


ZOE'S DAUGHTER. 


that she was put in the first. Shy, sensitive 
and reserve^ she made but small progress in 
becoming acquainted with her future compan- 
ions, who regarded her as a moody, outlandish 
little thing, and let her alone, all except Lally 
Chesney, who with imperturbable good humor 
and merry ways succeeded in getting on friendly 
but not intimate terms with her. She spent 
much of her time in the beautiful, quiet chapel, 
and joined the Confraternity of the Living 
Rosary, of which most of the Catholic girls at 
the Academy were members. In the Confra- 
ternity room, with its fair image of the Blessed 
Mother, its holy pictures of the scenes of her 
joys and sorrows, and in the chapel, Lucia felt 
at home — elsewhere all seemed strange and 
lonely. The girls sometimes twitted and quizzed 
her as school girls have a pleasant way of doing, 
partly from a desire to tease, and partly from a 
malicious love of domineering, heedless of the 
pain they inflict so they' are amused; and were a 
little astonished sometimes at the spirit with 
which their attempts were resisted by the usually 
quiet, and as they thought, stupid child. 

On one occasion, about two weeks after she 
came, Lucia heard from Lally Chesney that Ally 
Wade had said before the girls that she had been 
• into her desk and taken out a pencil and knife 
belonging to her. 

With flashing eyes and crimsoned cheeks she 
left the piano where she was practising, and 
went down to the play-room, where most of the 
girls, were assembled, unable to get out for their 
usual run up to the “Farm,” on account of a 
heavy snow-storm — and going straight up to Ally 
Wade, who was surrounded by her usual satel- 
lites, said: 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


225 

“Did you say that I went to your desk and 
took some things out?” 

“I — well, didn’t you? Some one told me that 
you did,” answered Ally Wade, with a sneer on 
her face. 

“No, I did not; and I’d like you to tell me 
who said so.” 

“Oh, I don’t care anything about it — but I’d 
as lief tell you as not. Mary Benson told me 
she saw you do it. Here she is now. Come 
here, Mary Benson; I want you,” said Ally 
Wade, delighted at the prospect of an excite- 
ment. 

Mary Benson came. 

“Did you tell Miss Wade that I opened her 
desk and took out something? ” said Lucia, con- 
fronting her. 

“I — I — who told you so?” asked the girl, 
quite frightened at the anger flashing in Lucia’s 
eyes. 

“I did,” said Ally Wade. 

“I didn’t mean — I said it was somebody about 
her size. It was almost dark, you know — and I 
said I thought it was her,” stammered the girl, 
her face crimson. " 

“Don’t say such things of me again, if you 
please. I "was not near your desk yesterday 
evening, nor indeed since I’ve been here, Miss 
Wade,” said Lucia. 

“No!” cried Lally Chesney. “I was with 
Lucia all day nearly, and Mamie Benson just 
wanted to get into your good graces, Ally Wade. 
You ought to be ashamed of yourself to let her 
bring you such tales.” 

“ You want your ears boxed, you pert little 
thing!” said Ally Wade, angrily. 

15 


226 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


“I’m sorry you’ll never enjoy the pleasure of 
doing it, you stupid big thing!” she retorted, 
ever laughing. 

u Do you believe what I say, Miss Wade?” 
demanded Lucia, now pale and furiously angry. 

u Oh, I suppose so; what difference does it 
make, anyhow?” said Ally Wade, carelessly. 

“It would make me a sneak, a story-teller, 
and dishonorable, to do such a thing; and I’d 
rather cut my hand off than be guilty of such an 
act. You shall tell me whether you believe me 
or not — yes or no,” said Lucia, excitedly. 

“No, then, if that will satisfy you, you little 
wasp!” answered Ally Wade. 

“Girls! girls! Mistress Muggins is' advanc- 
ing! ” exclaimed Lally Chesney, laughing; “hush 
it up, or she won’t let us have our Christmas 
play.” 

Lucia turned to see who Mistress Muggins 
might be, but saw only Sister Mary John, the 
Assistant Directress, who was a strict disciplina- 
rian, and somewhat exacting, coming toward 
them with grave countenance and slow step. 
Lally Chesney, who frequently felt the effects of 
Sister Mary John’s inflexible justice, always 
called her by the name she bore in the world 
when speaking of her to her companions, which 
piece of impertinence generally raised a laugh. 

“I am sorry, Lucia — I believe you” — said 
Ally Wade hurriedly, for she was to graduate 
the following summer, and wished to keep a 
clear record, as she was trying for the gold 
medal. 

It must, be confessed that Lucia’s display of 
spirit toward Ally Wade, who was much looked 
up to by the whole school, made a favorable 


ZOH’S DAUGHTER. 


227 


impression, and caused the girls to feel a respect 
for her which they had not felt before. Every 
day, however, she found some of the petty trials 
of school life to contend with, and, as we may 
imagine, she did not bear them like a saint, 
although she made desperate efforts to be patient 
and keep her exasperated and angry emotions 
within bounds. Sometimes she was so happy as 
to succeed, but oftener she failed. 

The holidays had begun and everybody was 
busy about Christmas gifts — that is, the girls 
from a distance, who were to remain at the Con- 
vent, where the good Sisters did everything they 
could think of in the way of innocent recreations, 
to give them a good time. There were grand 
preparations going on for the Midnight Mass of 
Christmas Eve, for ornamenting the chapel, and 
getting the choir up to the highest state of 
efficiency, not only as an amende honorable to 
the Divine Babe for the poverty and humiliation 
of the stable, and manger at Bethlehem; but 
Archbishop Cheverus was to be the celebrant 
and preach to them on the occasion. There was 
no end of talk about the Twelfth-night play, 
costumes and decorations, scenery, drop-curtains, 
etc., — all of which taxed their inventive faculties 
and ingenuity considerably. Lucia remembered 
seeing Mauin Chloe folding some broad lace 
flounces to pack in her trunk the morning before 
she left “Haylands” — rich, costly lace, of so 
cobweb a texture that the needle-work upon it 
looked like frost-flowers, and she thought how 
lovely it would look upon the chapel altar, and 
how glad her darling would be, if she could 
speak out of the silence, to have it appropriated 
to such a purpose. She spoke to Sister Angelica, 


228 


zoe’s daughter. 


and told her wishes; Sister Veronica was con- 
sulted and the lace flounces were brought down 
to be examined — but they told Lucia that they 
did not feel it right to accept so costly a gift 
from her without the authority of her guardian; 
and scarcely then, knowing how hereafter, in 
the world, she would prize such things, and be 
perhaps unable to procure them. But she de- 
clared she never meant to wear them, and if they 
did not accept them for the purpose she wished, 
she would get her guardian’s permission to send 
them away to some other church; they had be- 
longed to her dead mother, and for reasons best 
known to her own heart, she wished them con- 
secrated to sacred uses. Then she wrote to 
Allan Brooke about it, who drove over the very 
next .day, and told Sister Veronica that Lucia 
had his full permission to do whatever she 
pleased with her effects, that he agreed with her 
perfectly about the donation of the laces, and 
was highly pleased by the thoughtfulness and 
piety of her intention. She was overjoyed, and 
felt that she had received instead of conferred a 
favor in having her gift accepted. “Only,” she 
said to Sister Angelica, “ I don’ t want anybody 
to know anything about it, except yourself and 
vSister Veronica; it will be enough for me to see 
it there; it will remind me of my mother, and 
make me very happy to know that the nuns are 
all praying for her eternal repose; Sister Vero- 
nica told me she would ask them to do so, with- 
out mentioning names.” 

“Yes, my child, she has already done so, and 
I will offer my Communion with yours sat the 
Midnight Mass for the same intention,” replied 
the gentle nun, pressing the child to her bosom. 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 229 

Sister Angelica had been deeply interested in 
Lucia from the very first, for under her faulty 
surface she had discovered a mine of solid good 
— pure, high principles, truthfulness, honor, and 
a deep religious sentiment, which, if properly 
directed, would prove the leading motive of her 
life. So without seeming to notice her idiosyn- 
crasies, or her constitutional faults of temper, 
Sister Angelica patiently and skilfully applied 
her remedies by words spoken in season, by re- 
lating at opportune times other experiences re- 
sembling hers, and how at last they had over- 
come and triumphed with the help of God and 
the gracious assistance of Mary. 

All the Catholic girls went to Confession that 
afternoon of Christmas Eve to endeavor to pre- 
pare in their hearts a crib for the Divine Babe, 
the “expected of nations,” and a sweet and ten- 
der solemnity brooded over the place. The 
altar and the very steps leading to it, were one 
mass of lights and flowers; a large Star of Beth- 
lehem with spangled rays, tremulous and glitter- 
ing, hung suspended above the tabernacle, while 
the lamp of the Sacrament burned with clear, 
steady ray over the sanctuary. The carved 
white-winged angels kneeling in marble stillness 
011 each side of the altar, as if watching and 
adoring, reflected the roseate light gleaming 
softly from the alabaster vases, in which tapers 
had been placed, at their feet, and as it flickered 
in soft pulsations over them, they looked so in- 
stinct with life as to make it a wonder they did 
not expand their wings and soar away to their 
brighter heavens. 

Lucia had taken a slight cold, and it was 
thought best for her not to join the procession, 


230 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


which from her place in the chapel she now 
heard at a distance singing the Adeste Fideles 
on its way through the house, now rising, now 
falling, in strong harmonious cadences. Pres- 
ently it filed in, the girls all wearing white veils, 
and those who were to receive Holy Communion 
holding a lighted candle, still singing Adeste 
Fideles as they took their places. Sister Ve- 
ronica, Sister Angelica, Sister Mary John and 
one or two other nuns, accompanied and knelt 
apart, but near them. Then the solemn Mid- 
night Mass began, the archbishop celebrant, in 
white stole and chasuble that glittered with gold 
and silver embroidery, over his white rochet and 
purple cassock, his splendid ring upon his finger 
and his great jewelled cross gleaming upon his 
breast, arrayed in all the glory of the sanctuary 
to welcome the coming of the ‘ ‘ Son of the King 5 ’ 
to His inheritance ! There was no hurry in his 
dignified movements; there seemed to be no 
thought of earth in his mind as, with head 
bowed, and countenance glowing with rapt 
devotion and deep humility, he celebrated the 
Divine Mysteries. Then came the exultant 
Gloria in Excelsis ; afterwards the hymn “There 
were shepherds abiding in the field” sung by a 
voice now indeed blending with the Adeste 
Fideles of heaven — a voice whose notes were 
without flaw, and soared above the heads of that 
white-veiled congregation, up through the dim 
arches of the groined roof, like a very “bird of 
God” seeking outlet for its flight towards 
heaven’s gate as it sang the old, old and ever 
wonderful story. Then followed a sweet and 
simple discourse from the saintly Prelate, as 
simple and as soul-touching as the meditations 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 23 1 

of St. Bonaventura, on the birth and childhood 
of Him who was born of Mary that night eighteen 
centuries ago; and there was not an eye there, 
however unused to tears, nor a heart however 
filled with worldliness or unaccustomed to think 
on such subjects, that did not fill with soft, tender 
tears — that did not melt, as he spoke, with sacred 
emotions, which were more precious to heaven 
than gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. 

The Agnus Dei was sung in thrilling strains, 
and those who were prepared went forward and 
knelt at the sanctuary railing, to receive into the 
loving and humble abode of their hearts Him 
who had been rejected by the people of Bethle- 
hem and driven to the shelter of a poor stable. 
It is true some of these hearts scarcely had room 
for the illustrious stranger, they were so crowded 
with oxen and other beasts, represented by 
their natural faults — but they offered Him and 
His holy Mother welcome: they made the best 
place they could for them: and full of compassion, 
never turning from any who seek Him, He abode 
with them ! 

Never had Lucia beheld so lovely a sight: 
never had the earthly part of her being been so 
completely lulled to rest: never before had she 
comprehended the significance and power of re- 
ligion to elevate and strengthen the soul against 
the army of foes camped round about it, in the 
shape of human passions and infirmities and its 
countless inclinations to evil. She was very 
young, it will be objected, to have such near 
views of spiritual life, but it must be always re- 
membered in this narrative that Lucia was differ- 
ent from others of her own age, — highly sensi- 
tive, full of deep religious sentiment, emotional, 


2 32 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


and with a conscience so tender as to thrill and 
suffer from the smallest wound, most of all from 
such as were self-inflicted. 

The Midnight Mass was over, the lights extin- 
guished, while odorous clouds of incense yet hung 
like a veil over the sanctuary, and in silent order 
the inmates of the Convent retired to rest with 
the echo of the Gloria in Excelsis in their hearts, 
and the blessing of the Divine Babe of Bethlehem 
anointing their souls like balm. 

“Oh, Sister Angelica!” whispered Lucia, at 
the door of the dormitory, where, clinging to the 
hand of the gentle nun, she detained her a mo- 
ment, “to think I did not want to come here ! 
It seems like heaven !” 

“Does it, my child? Thanks to our Blessed 
Lady that it is so with you,” said Sister Angel- 
ica, with tender pity in her eyes as she looked 
down at the wonderfully bright face lifted to 
hers, knowing so well that “joy lasteth but for 
a season,” and that crucifixions ever follow the 
hosannas ! But she would not cast a shadow on 
the present heaven of the neophyte by telling her 
of the bitter conflicts to come; she knew that they 
were marching on with inexorable and inevitable 
certainty, as to all, to meet her advancing feet; 
time enough then, when they drew near, to feel 
the bitter shadow and the thorns, without antic- 
ipating! So she only said, smoothing back the 
hair from Lucia’s face: “Let us watch alwav, 
like the shepherds, my child: watch to keep out 
the ‘little foxes that destroy our vines,’ and the 
wolves that devour our lambs, and the angels of 
God will appear to us, bringing us tidings of great 
joy. But we must watch without ceasing.” 

“Yes, always!” said Lucia softly. 


zoffs daughter. 


233 


Allegory was more forcible and eloquent to her 
imaginative mind than any other form of speech; 
there was that in her nature which its esoteric 
meaning impressed so vividly that she took in at 
once the full significance of it. Sweet and calm 
were her slumbers that Christmas Eve; she re- 
membered nothing of her dreams except the pale, 
peaceful shadow of her mother’s face that brigh- 
tened her sleep, and when the first bell awoke 
her for the Christmas Mass she felt strangely 
rested and happy. 

Allan Brooke came to see her early that day; 
breakfast was just over, and the girls were as- 
sembled in the play-room opening Christmas 
boxes and packages from home, and comparing 
presents. He had been full of misgivings about 
Lucia — indeed had made himself quite miserable, 
fearing that she was unhappy, until he saw her, 
and heard her assurances of perfect content. 
Then he gave her the Christmas gifts he had 
ordered months before from Paris, one of which 
was a large gold locket set with fine pearls, con- 
taining a miniature of her mother painted by 
David, the celebrated French painter, from one 
that Allan Brooke had had copied from the veiled 
picture in his library. It represented Zoe in the 
days of her youth and happiness, when no 
shadow or chill had yet fallen on her matchless 
beauty. 

“Oh, my darling! my darling! how beautiful 
you were! I knew her, Mr. Brooke, by her 
smile and her eyes! Thank you thousands of 
times!” she said, in low tremulous tones, clasp- 
ing the beloved image close to her quickly- 
throbbing heart. 

“I thought it would make you happy, my 


234 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


dear,” lie said gently, much touched by her 
emotion. “And here,” he added, handing In^r 
another locket set in rubies and diamonds, “is 
the Madre Dolores; the pearls mean tears, my 
child — the rubies and diamonds, bitter passion 
and hope.” 

“Oh, Mr. Brooke, how can I ever thank you 
for these precious gifts!” said Lucia, gazing 
upon the face of the Madre Dolores , whose 
sorrowful loveliness and bitter anguish were 
depicted with marvellous fidelity; then she 
pressed it reverently to her lips, utterly unable 
to express all that she wished. 

“It is enough, little girl, if they make you 
happy. Now let me tell you something. I 
thought, if Sister Veronica does not object, that 
you might like to have a little feast for your new 
companions to-day, so I have ordered several 
baskets full of French confectionery — cakes, 
tropical fruits, and some other trifles for you to 
distribute among them. Ah, here is Sister 
Veronica!” She was passing through on her 
way to the convent for an hour’s rest — but see- 
ing Mr. Brooke, stopped to speak to him, when 
he mentioned his little plan. 

“Certainly! certainly! I am thankful for 
anything that brings happiness to our young 
people to-day, and this will be a great treat. 
But stop!” she said, as if struck by a bright 
thought, “we have a German Sister here who 
often tells us about the Christmas trees in her 
Fatherland; suppose we get Sister Alphonsi to 
fix up a Christmas tree for this evening?” 

Lucia had never seen a Christmas tree, but her 
guardian had, and thought the idea a splendid 
one, as she did also after he explained to her 
what it was. 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


235 


“How lovely it will be!” she exclaimed, as 
sbe pictured to her imagination a tree with 
twinkling lights all over it, and bearing wonder- 
ful fruits glittering with gold and glowing with 
every tint of the rainbow. 

“I will go now, and send Patrick up to the 
farm to cut us a tree, and we shall expect to see 
you, Mr. Brooke, this evening.” 

“And Mrs. Carlton?” said Lucia. 

“Certainly. Mrs. Carlton is an old acquaint- 
ance of mine. But this is to be a surprise, 
Lucia, so keep it secret from every one.” 

“Except Sister Angelica?” 

“By all means let Sister Angelica into our 
secret; she has great taste, and can help us 
greatly,” replied Sister Veronica with a smile. 

“And, Sister,” said Allan Brooke, in a low 
tone, while Lucia went to the other end of the 
room to speak to Lally Chesney, who had come 
in to receive a package from her father sent by a 
servant, “I know that you assist a great number 
of the poor — will you please accept a little 
Christmas gift for them? Do not mention my 
name,” he added, as he slipped a hundred-dollar 
bill through the grate into her hand. 

“God bless you, Mr. Brooke; this will bring 
comfort and food to many a poor fireside where 
there is nakedness, hunger and sickness,” said 
Sister Veronica, while a flush of emotion passed 
over her pale features. 

“Will you do me the favor,” he said “to be 
my almoner hereafter in such cases? I have but 
7 little opportunity to do good, because I am quite 
taken up with my public duties. I assure you, 
Sister, that you could not do me a greater 
service.” 


236 


zoe’s daughter. 


“Thank-you, in the name of the poor and suf- 
fering. I will do as you wish, Mr. Brooke, and 
may Almighty God reward and bless you,” an- 
swered the good nun fervently, much impressed 
by the charitable dispositions of-a man who was 
so immersed in public affairs that he had but 
spare time to think of his own. 

“I will detain you but a moment longer, Sis- 
ter. Tell me how my ward impresses you.” 

“I am studying Lucia’s character, Mr. Brooke. 
She is a remarkable child, full of incongruous 
elements, and I am trying to find the key-note 
of her disposition. My impression is that she 
will do well. Sister Angelica, who has great 
experience in such matters, says that she has the 
best foundation for a true and good womanhood 
she has seen in many years.” 

“That- is pleasant to hear. Such were my 
own impressions, but I feared they were not 
altogether impartial. Now I will detain you no 
longer, but shall trespass on you this evening.” 

“Be sure and invite Mrs. Carlton, with my 
kind remembrances,” said Sister Veronica as 
they parted. 

We will not describe the festivities of that de- 
lightful evening at the Convent, or speak of the 
rested, relieved hearts of the indigent poor who 
received with their dole of bread and soup that 
day money to meet their present needs. 

The Christmas Tree was a grand success, and 
Lucia’s happiness was so great that all her re- 
sentments melted away in the genial brightness 
of the hour. She selected some of the most 
beautiful and costly things on the “Tree” and 
offered them herself to Ally Wade and Mary 
Benson, not with a proud sentiment of heroic 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


237 


condescension, but with a sweet feeling of hum- 
ble reparation for the faults of anger, pride and 
sullenness that she was ever prone to fall into, 
for Lucia was determined from this time forth 
to keep watch with the lowly shepherds and not 
with Herod. 

Nor will our limits allow us to follow Lucia 
through the peaceful years of her convent life, 
or describe her trials and her joys while there. 
It is enough to say that with Sister Angelica for 
her chosen adviser and friend, and under the 
pure and sacred influences of the place, her 
character developed its finest traits, and she 
gradually learned the important science of self- 
government , , by keeping watch over herself, 
faithful to the promise made the first Christmas 
Kve she spent there. The change w^s gradual, 
and so slow as to be almost imperceptible to her 
constant associates, but none the less sure and 
substantial. 

She spent her vacations at “Haylands,” divid- 
ing her days, as in the old times, between her 
home and “Buckrae,” where everything was 
kept in the most perfect and beautiful order 
around her mother’s resting-place. Sometimes 
she accompanied her guardian and a party of 
friends to the Virginia Springs, where she met 
and was introduced to the Jeffersons, Randolphs, 
Washingtons, Lees, and other distinguished peo- 
ple of the time, who were his intimate friends. 
Once she was made happy by having Father 
Jannison of their party, the guest of her guard- 
ian. The good old pastor had been extremely 
ill with malarial fever, and was ordered to the 
baths of Berkeley, and everything arranged for 
his journey by Allan Brooke before he himself 


238 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


heard anything about it; and they brought him 
back in triumph, fully restored to health and 
usefulness by the efficacy of the waters and the 
mountain air. 


[end oe part i.] 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


239 


PART II. 

CHAPTER I. 

HOME AGAIN. 

A bright morning in May: the syringas and 
lilacs in bloom; an odor of violets on the air; 
roses of every tint, from blood-red to languid 
pink-veined saffron, glowing in royal beauty on 
trellis and in parterre; hyacinths of surprising 
size sending out the breath of their incense as 
the zephyrs, which make such low sweet whis- 
perings among the tender leaves of the old 
beeches and oaks overhead, toy with them, caus- 
ing them to tremble and sway like jewelled bells. 
Apple blossoms like rose-tinted snows drift over 
the green wheat-lands; peach trees, blushing in 
delicate bloom, make beautiful the brown fields 
over which the ploughshare is making long even 
furrows; birds whistling their love-calls on 
every bough, or trilling their clear notes in 
scales of marvellous sweetness, high up where 
the sunshine distils itself in showers of gold in 
the blue depths, lure the eye in vain to follow 
their pathless flight. Over there, through an 
opening in the woods, the river, gleaming and 
sparkling like broken diamonds, bears along the 
white-sailed fishing boats towards the bay, and 
larger craft loaded with tobacco and other pro- 
duce outward bound for northern ports; in the 
distance stretches the foam-flecked bay: a sky- 


240 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER.. 


bound horizon on one hand, a dim, far-off shore- 
line on the other; rocking ships in the distance, 
and sea-gulls, with sunshine upon their wings, 
flashing and hovering low down over the waves 
in keen lookout for sea-trout and flounders. 

A tall beautiful girl in a white muslin dress, 
which fell in graceful diaphanous folds around 
her, stood upon the verandah at “Haylands,” 
her hands folded together and resting upon a 
gnarled and fantastic grape-vine, which, years 
ago, had clambered up and twined itself in wild 
luxuriance among the clematis and coral honey- 
suckle that screened the place with a lattice-work 
of leaves and flowers far more beautiful than the 
gilded vines and leaves of the Temple; far more 
beautiful in their tremulous, fragrant life than 
the marvellous traceries of the Moorish Alhambra. 
She stood looking out at all the loveliness out- 
spread before her, drinking it in, as it were, 
until it reflected itself from her tender, luminous 
eyes. There could have been nothing more 
graceful than her tall, lissome form; nothing 
more perfect than her high, finely-cut features: 
the richness of her coloring, the shape of her 
classic head with its abundance of black silky 
hair, wound and gathered into a loose knot at the 
back by a curiously carved tortoise-shell comb, 
from which one or two curls escaped, straying 
over her slender ivory throat to her shoulders. 
While she stood there motionless in her full con- 
tent, with the sunshine flickering through the 
tile vines over her, the wind brought to her the 
songs of the contented negroes at work in the 
brown fields, now rising in full chorus, now 
heard in solitary refrain, giving just that dash 
of pathos to the scene that it needed to make its 
loveliness and poetry perfect. 


* DAUGHTER. 241 

“It was a beautiful thought to dedicate this 
mouth to tfie Queen of Heaven; to offer unto 
her the sweetness, the freshness, the bright- 
ness of the young year, — her Son’s gift to us. 
Every ray of sunlight or stars, every glistening 
dew-drop, every beauty of leaf and blossom, 
every sound that intones a thought of the Creator 
of all, is fitly thine, sweet Mother, the tribute of 
thy risen Son. As if it were all mine, I offer it to 
thee; I offer it to thee, blessed and compassionate 
one,” she thought, in the fulness of her heart. 
A footstep approached, slowly shuffling through 
the hall, and our old acquaintance, (it is eight 
years since we last saw her,) Mauin Chloe, dressed 
as for a holiday but somewhat bent, came out 
into the verandah, where she stood a moment 
veiling her eyes with her hand as she looked 
around; then catching sight of the one she 
sought, she gave a satisfied laugh, coming 
towards her. 

“I’ m so glad you came, my dear old Maummy,” 
said the young lady, going to meet her, and tak- 
ing one of her brown wrinkled hands in her 
own, “sit right here in this low straw chair, and 
put your feet on this ' soft cushion — there — now 
I’m going to sit on the step, and lean upon your 
dear old knees like I used to when you told me 
stories; then we’ll have a talk, a real old-fash- 
ioned talk, after our eight years’ separation. I 
want to hear all the news.” 

“Look here, Miss Lucia,” said Maum Chloe, 
chuckling, “I’ll set down jest to ’dulge you, 
tliar bein’ nobody but us ’uns about; but tell me, 
honey, is you sure it’s you, for, please God, I 
can’t ’member, when I looks at you, anything a 
bit like that poor little onfriendly cretur, Miss 
Zod’s darter.” 

16 


242 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER.:- 


“No, there’s nothing left of her except her 
nose, just as large now as it was then, when it 
was much too big for her poor, little, yellow 
face,” said Lucia, laughing. 

“That’s a fact; it is the same nose, I declar, 
but nothin’ else. I tell you, honey, that little 
gal’s as dead and gone as if she was berried; and 
now sich a beauty as is growed outen her! Oh 
my, honey! you is the prettiest thing I ever laid 
my eyes on,” said Maum Chloe, scanning every 
feature of the peerless face uplifted to hers. 

“Yes, Maunimy,” she answered, while a soft 
blush tinted her face. “Our good God has 
fashioned me fairly. He has made me beautiful, 
and I accept His gift, not to be vain or proud of 
it, but to try and make my poor life correspond 
with it, that I be not condemned for misusing 
what He has given.” 

“And don’t you like to look at yourself, 
honey, in the glars?” asked Maum Chloe, in 
simple amaze. 

“Yes,” she answered, “just as I love to look 
at this rose, or a beautiful picture; then I go 
straight away, forgetting what manner of face I 
have. ’ ’ 

“Laws, honey, nobody but me’ll ever b’lieve 
that. I b’lieves it, ’cause I knows you ain’t got 
one grain of hipoc’acy ’bout you. I wouldn’t 
tell nobody, honey, if I was you; they’d say 
right off you was jest fishin’ for complemens. ” 

“I expect they might, but I shall not speak 
of such things to any one. Father Jannison and 
my Guardy know how I feel, and what I think, 
and it is nobody’s else business. Now that you 
know, Mautnmy, I want to tell you something 
else. You must not flatter me. I don’t like 
it.” 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 


243 


“I dunno, honey, ’bout dat,” said Maum 
Chloe, shaking her head and laughing. “I 
likes to look at purty things, too, and when I 
sees even a bright flower, I’m bound to tell it 
what I thinks of it.” 

“ But I’m not a flower, Maum Chloe; so after 
this I’d rather you’d say nothing about my 
beauty. Didn’t you used to comfort me once by 
telling me ‘pretty is as pretty does?’ So 
now. You know that my true self is under this 
fair show; my true self, which God alone sees, 
and which can never die; while this beauty you 
so much admire, will fade, will die, and perish 
in the dust, or grow wrinkled and unsightly, 
the eyes dim, and all comeliness destroyed by 
time and grief ; but the true self never grows 
old, never decays, and if it has lived aright, 
grows brighter, fairer, and purer, until it returns 
to Him who gave it,” said Lucia, in grave, sweet 
tones. 

“That’s true, my purty; I never thought of 
lookin’ at it in that light. You’s right, you’s 
right,” said Maum Chloe. “But I’m mighty 
glad to git you all back to ‘ Haylands ’ wonst 
more. It’s ben awesome lonely sence you all 
went away travellin’ in furren parts. Only, 
honey, it ’pears to me that my Mars’ Allan don’t 
look like he used to; he ain’t half so spry, and 
thar’s a heavy look in his eyes that makes me 
sort of oneasy. I been watchin’ of him close, I 
tell you, and, honey, I seen the blood fly up in 
his face twice, an’ he put his han’ up to his head 
quick, quick, like it hurt him, but he don’t say 
nothin’. And I notis, too, he drops to sleep in 
his cheer arter dinner, and I don’t like that 
nuther. Is anything the matter with my boy, 
Miss Lucia?” she asked, in anxious, eager tones. 


244 


zoe’s daughter. 


“ My dear old Maummy, did you ever see a 
hen with one duck?” said Lucia, patting the 
brown wrinkled cheek of Maum Chloe. “You 
are just like that about Guardy. He’s as well 
as well can be, ” she added laughing. 

“He’s mighty nigh to me, honey; but I’m glad 
tliar’s nothin’ the matter with him,” said 
Maum Chloe with a glad look. “I s’pose you 
heerd about poor Jupe?” 

“ Bligh wrote us word. He was drowned, he 
said. How was it ? 

“Yes, honey, drownded after all. When his 
boat was picked up it was bottom up’ards, he 
under it tangled up in the ropes and sail some- 
how; drownded dead ! And, honey, we didn’t 
know whar to lay him : we thought he oughter 
be laid at his ole Mars’ feet, and Father Janni- 
son, he thought so too; and we dressed him up 
in all his finery he was so proud on — white wig, 
red trimmin’s, shoe bucklers and all, and sich a 
figger he was in his coffiin ! It was like a show ! 
His face didn’t look no bigger’n my hand, and 
his eyes starin’ wide open, like he was watchin’ 
to see if we did everything he wanted. Father 
Jannison he had been keepin’ his money for 
him, and, honey, he left harf of it to him, and 
tother harf to you. Lawyer Jones, he writ his 
will for him when Miss Zo€ fust coined home, 
and if you b’lieve me, he had seven hundred 
dollars cash.” 

“Poor old Jupe!” said Lucia, brushing the 
tears from her cheek, “my faithful old friend! 
I am glad he was laid at my grandfather’s feet. 
I would have chosen the spot for him, had I 
been here. But tell me how Sam Meggs and 
his wife get on ? ” 


245 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 

“She gets along peert enuflf, but ole man 
Meggs, lie’s more ornary than ever, and it ’pears 
to me his eyes is bigger. He’s got a sort of 
paralsis, some says, but I thinks its sheer lazi- 
ness. He never moves outen the cliimbley 
corner, but shts thar mumblin’ and chawin’ all 
the time. He’s one of them kind that its hard 
to tell what they was made for; and her pashunts 
is parst b’lief, honey; she humors him, and waits 
upon him like he was a baby. If he b’ longed 
to me, I take him by the scruff of his neck, and 
duck him twice a day ’till he got some life into 
him.” 

“Oh! Maum Chloe, I’m ashamed of you; you 
wouldn’t do such a thing for the world. There 
are some diseases that make people dead that 
way for years and years, and they can. eat and 
don’t seem to suffer any pain, but they are dying 
all the same, just like an old tree that begins to 
die at the top, and they can’t help themselves 
any more than if they were dead,” said Lucia. 

“ Law ! does you think ole man Meggs is that 
a w T ay?” 

“ Yes, no doubt of it, and I am so glad to hear 
that his wife is good to him. I should have 
thought a trial like this would be very hard for 
her to bear, she’s always so stirring and active.” 

“ Yes, indeed, honey, she’s mighty pashunt 
with him , but I tell you , my purty ! she takes it 
out upon t’other folks when she gets a chance; it 
seems to do her good, it’s just like liftin’ the led 
off’n the tea-kittle to let off the steam.” 

“ I expect it does,” said Lucia, laughing. “I 
don’t think I should like to be about when she 
gets in that tea-kettle sort of a way.” 

“She’s a turror to' evil doers,” answered 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


246 

Mauni Chloe, with her old, hearty, inward 
laugh, that usually shook her all over like palsy. 
“The niggers here says they hears her ’cross 
the river sometimes — but I never did.” 

“ I suppose there are a great many young peo- 
ple and children among the negroes at ‘ Hay- 
lands ’ now.” 

“I carn’t count ’em, honey! Thar was about 
a hundred in all, boys and girls and little uns, 
when you goed away eight years ago; well, I 
reckon thar’s ’bout twice that now; ’pears to me 
they’s always being’ born; and it’s a rar thing 
for any of them picaninnies ever to die. Seems 
to me they jest grows and flourishes like poke, or 
mushrooms, withouten any one much keerin’ 
what becomes on ’em.” 

“I’m glad to hear there are so many to be 
taken care of. Oh, Maum Chloe, I’m going to 
do great things for them, and I want you to help 
me,” said Lucia, a beautiful enthusiasm in her 
eyes. 

“ Laws, honey, you carn’t do nothin! It’s agin 
the law to learn ’em to read and rite; and as to 
freein’ of us, we’d heap ruther stay as we is than 
be turned loose and be druv outen the State, for 
you know we has to travel as soon’s we git our 
free papers.” 

“Never you mind, you’ll see what we can do. 
Guardy,” — for so she had learned with sweet 
confidence to call Allan Brooke — “Guardy says 
I may do what I please, and I am going to 
try.” 

“Well I never heerd the like! Course I’ll 
help you all I can, but I deciar its all nonsense. 
They’s gettin’ along well enutt, and it’ll just 
make ’em dissatisfied, and good for nuffin’ upon 
the yearth. I tell you, Missy, you’ll have trub- 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


247 


ble for your pains; and you mout as well go to a 
hutch of wild liars — the skeeriest varmints that 
run wild — and try to larn ’em to do like white 
folks.” And Maum Chloe stopped, quite short 
of breath, to shake and wheeze over what seemed 
to her an utterly absurd idea. 

“I expect to have some trouble, Mauminy; but 
we can do nothing that is worth doing without 
that. We must put up with difficulties when 
we hope to succeed, and I am going to try my 
best,” said Lucia, full of courage. 

“Well, honey, it’s a good work, I reckon; but 
what can you ’spect to do, sich a fairy lily as 
you, agin the ign’ ranee and stupidness of three 
hundred niggers? Why, my blessed missus, 
some of ’em is that dark and thick-skulled they’d 
think you was gwine to put a spell on ’em if 
you set ’em down to ther primmer.” 

“If I can’t do much, I’ll do what I can, 
Maummy. I’m determined to try, so you needn’t 
say another word to discourage me. And you’re 
to be my right-hand helper, say what you will, 
you dear old Maummy,” said Lucia, her eyes 
full of hope, and a ring of strong good-will in 
her voice. 

Maum Chloe ruminated a little while : 
she would like to have told her, only she had 
not the skill to put her thoughts into lan- 
guage, or arrange the observations of her long 
experience into intelligible sentences, that the 
desire to do good and great things was not 
always accompanied by the ability to execute, 
hence many of the inglorious failures of man- 
kind. 

But Lucia would no longer pursue the descrip- 
tions of her plans; she had prepared Maum Chloe 
for. the new order of things to . be established, 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


248 

and until she was quite ready to carry her ideas 
into effect, she thought it would be most judi- 
cious not to have the minds and imaginations of 
the negroes excited by rumors or disturbed by 
anticipations they could not comprehend; so tell- 
ing Maum Chloe not to speak of what she had 
been saying to her, she reached out her hand, 
asking her what it was that she had so nicely 
done up in the clean fine handkerchief she saw 
sticking out of her bosom. 

“It’s — well honey, — you know I ain’t heerd it 
so long; and I get so hongry for it now and then, 
that I feel like if I could jest get somebody to 
read it to mewonst more, I’d be satisfied to die,” 
answered Maum Chloe, her face quivering with 
excitement. 

“Yes; I know. I have thought of it very 
often, Maunimy, and wished myself here to read 
it to you,” said Lucia. 

It was the old speech, fragrant with lavender 
and thyme; the paper grown very yellow, and 
beginning to split in creases. It required very 
delicate handling now, but Lucia unfolded it to 
Maum Chloe’ s satisfaction, and read it in clear, 
distinct tones, which gave full effect to the more 
flowery and patriotic flights, and brought tears 
of delight to the old creature’s eyes, which were 
now grown so dim that Lucia had noticed 
several times, the two days since her return to 
“Haylands,” that she put out her hand before 
her as if feeling her way, as she moved around 
the dining-room. But she denied there being 
any failure of sight, and declared she never saw 
better in her life. As Lucia finished reading 
and folding the precious document, wrapping 
the fine linen handkerchief carefully around it, 
Maum Chloe got up out of the chair, saying: 


ZO$'S DAUGHTER. 


249 


“This is the blessedest hour I’ve had in three 
year; it ’pears to me it makes me feel young 
agin, and ’news my strength like a eagle; but I 
must be seein’ bout dinner, now; I hear the 
hosses’ hoofs trampin’ down the road.” 

“I don’t hear a thing, Maum Chloe; sit still a 
little longer; I want to ask you a hundred things. 
Guardy and Frank wont be back for an hour.” 

“Ears is safer’n eyes' to trust, chile. I knows 
black Belzebub’s tramp a mile off,” said Maum 
Chloe, shading her eyes with her hand, as she 
stood looking down the broad avenue which 
stretched in a beautiful vista, more than “a 
mile off,” under the overarching boughs of the 
old trees. “I don’t see nuther, but I hears that 
cretur's tramp for certain.” 

So she did, and in a few moments Lucia saw 
the two gentlemen, Allan Brooke and Frank 
Yellott, then on a visit to Haylands, as they 
turned the circular carriage-drive and cantered 
down the noble avenue. She walked down the 
steps, and stood upon the rose-blooming terrace 
in her peerless, gracious loveliness, the sunlight 
flickering through the leaves in a shower of 
radiance over her head and dress, ready to receive 
them. 

And if Lucia was so transformed by the inter- 
vening years since we last saw her, could it be 
possible that the tall, broad-shouldered, hand- 
some man, sitting his horse like a Centaur, and 
as much changed outwardly as if he had been 
in Medea’s cauldron, was Frank Yellott? Eight 
years, added to his fourteen, had done wonders 
— had given him time to grow and make much 
of himself and his advantages. Nothing could 
be more debonair than his manner, nothing 


250 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


more perfect than his address, nothing more 
faultless than his appearance, from his soft curl- 
ing Saxon hair, to the tips of his polished boots 
and the ornamental gold-work of his dainty 
spurs. The minutice of his toilette accorded 
with the style of the times, but was regulated 
and subdued by a more manly taste than the 
prevailing fashions of the day, which were still 
infected with the elaborate follies authorized by 
the late Regency, young America being still de- 
pendent on England for the prevailing fashions. 
Altogether, our cub of eight years ago had devel- 
oped into a fine-looking, manly gentleman. He 
and Eucia had shaken hands and laughed over 
their old quarrels, and, if they were not good 
friends,, had made up their minds, indeed pledged 
themselves, to bury the tomahawk. Allan Brooke 
showed but little change. When one reaches 
the summit of the mountain one does not plunge 
down at once into the shadow on the other side, 
but waits, lingering and looking backwards, loth 
to leave the mellow sunshine and the view of 
the pleasant perspective left so far and forever 
behind, with its beautiful spots, its graves, its 
rainbow-crowned mists and clouds! He was 
grown stouter; the iron-gray of his hair was 
verging on whiteness; but his form was still 
erect, his face ruddy, his eyes clear, and his step 
firm and even; judging from appearances, he 
had a prospect of length of days and usefulness 
still before him. 

Altho’ Eucia was disposed to be friendly with 
Frank Yellott, she noticed one thing about him, 
which, combined with her old mistrust, forbade 
full confidence in him. He never looked you 
squarely in the face while conversing with you ; 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 


25 1 

his eyes shifted here and there, as if avoiding the 
scrutiny of other eyes all the time; and they 
were handsome eyes too, large, well-formed, 
and intelligent, but of an uncertain color — be- 
tween coffee-brown and green; in some lights 
they showed one shade, in some, another. 
When the green light shone in them they were 
simply diabolical. Lucia had seen this phospho- 
rescent gleam in them once, and shrank back as 
if some invisible hand had struck her a blow on 
the face, for to her it seemed the glow of a bale- 
fire of a nature otherwise full of great and good 
possibilities. 

Frank Yellott had passed with great credit to 
himself thro’ his collegiate course, and was now 
preparing himself for the profession of the law. 
Cultivated in intellect, fond of aesthetic pur- 
suits, and with a reputation for more than 
mediocre talent, he seemed to have a brilliant 
future before him; everything now depended 
upon himself to make or mar the gifts Alnjighty 
God had given, and the indications were that he 
would do well. There was no apparent reason 
why he should not, unless the influence of his 
old training “ to seem and not to be” frustrated 
the designs of a merciful Providence in his re- 
gard. 

Allan Brooke looked with proud eyes on these 
young people, both so near and dear to him; and 
in his secret soul he hoped that they might be 
attracted towards each other and crown the hap- 
piness of his life by a marriage which, uniting 
the families of Brooke and Ramsey, would, he 
thought, be a satisfactory compensation for the 
sore disappointment of his own youth. But 
never by word, look or act could the keenest 


252 ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 

observer have detected his cherished hopes, what- 
ever they might naturally enough have suspected. 
He was very proud of his nephew, whom he had 
not seen for several years, until his return from 
abroad two weeks ago, when he invited him to 
accompany him to “Haylands,” and would take 
no denial. Having seen Lucia, Frank Yellott 
did not require much persuasion, but packed his 
traps and was ready to start when they were; 
but he saw little of her, for she spent every mo- 
ment of her time with the friends in whose com- 
pany they had been travellirg over Europe for 
three years, until they reached Baltimore, where 
they separated — the Manns and Miss Jefferson 
going to their home, Monticello, and themselves 
back to “Hay lands.” 

Frank Yellott had a great deal of worldly tact, 
and adapted himself so entirely to his uncle’s 
tastes that the latter found great pleasure in his 
society; with Lucia it was more difficult, but he 
did not obtrude himself, and conducted himself 
towards her in the most delicate and deferential 
manner, which at length thawed her coldness 
and made her feel herself to have been hard and 
ungracious. 

After being at “Haylands” a week, Frank 
Yellott wrote a letter to his mother, which we, 
in the character of Asmodeus, read over his 
shoulder, and transcribe as part of the web of 
our story. 

“I have never,” he wrote, “seen such a trans- 
formation as in Lucia D’Olivieras. To say that 
she is the most beautiful creature I ever saw, does 
not express it, and you would accuse me of rav- 
ing if I attempted to describe her. She used to 
be like a stormy petrel, but there is now a calm 


ZOE/S DAUGHTER. 


253 


self-possession about her which it seems impos- 
sible to disturb. It strikes me that she is ever 
on guard, and holds herself with firm reins. I 
do not imagine for a moment that her high spirit 
is extinguished, for I see a sparkle in her eyes 
sometimes when she is excited in conversation 
about anything she is much interested in, which 
forbids such a supposition — she is simply mis- 
tress of herself. The Governor has adopted her, 
and she gets by his will one-half his princely 
fortune, the other half to be divided between 
ourselves. This piece of information, imparted 
by Uncle Brooke .himself in a gush of confi- 
dence, set me thinking, and my cogitations re- 
sult in this: Would it not be a wise thing in me 
to try and effect a consolidation of interests by a 
marriage with Lucia? Is not the idea brilliant, 
as well as utilitarian? I think the Governor 
would like it, for I am in high feather with him; 
although I never expect to find a wife who will 
suit all my requirements, for I am very fastidi- 
ous, you know, yet the solid advantages of such 
a match would counterbalance much that might 
otherwise prove disagreeable. And Lucia is so 
beautiful, of so proud a presence, and has withal 
so much true noblesse in her character, that I 
think in time I might get up a grand passion for 
her! How she would fancy me I have not given 
myself the trouble to ask. I think — without 
vanity — I could win her with Uncle Brooke on 
my side , and it will be something of a triumph 
if I do, for while abroad Lucia rejected the Mar- 
quis de Moutfort, an English nobleman of large 
estate and unexceptionable character, simply be- 
cause she did not love him! Such absurd sim- 
plicity must have given De Moutfort something 


254 


zoe’s daughter. 


new to think of. The Governor mentioned one 
or two other offers she has had, but so far Lucia 
has never had the slightest sentiment for any 
one — I mean of a tender sort, you know — which 
makes my chances better. Write to me, my 
worldly-wise mother, and tell me what you think 
of my plan.” 

Mrs. Yellott thought with her son, that the 
plan was admirable. Her own affairs, from an 
extravagant love of display which carried her ir- 
retrievably beyond her means, were in a state of 
inextricable confusion, and to her mind the pur- 
pose of her son was like a direct interposition of 
Providence for herself. And then, she thought, 
Lucia is a Catholic! This was a consolation to 
Mrs. Yellott, who, if she did hold on to the 
world with a tenacious .grasp, never let go of her 
faith and its outward observances, and succeeded 
in “serving two masters” as successfully per- 
haps as any one has ever done. Then she liad 
good reason for rejoicing in the prospect of her 
son having so strong a safeguard as a Catholic 
wife, for his record was far from stainless; there 
were two or three scrapes he had got into, 
which gave her many hours of secret dread 
and uneasiness. Knowing his weakness, she 
had no guarantee that he might not bring him- 
self to open disgrace some day by repeating 
them. As long as he kept up appearances, and 
covered his sins with a cloak of immaculate hue, 
it was not so bad; but, woman-of-the- world as she 
was, she knew full well that when a career be- 
gins to be openly downward, there is but small 
hope of redemption left. So with the double 
incentive of her son’s safety, and his aggrandize- 
ment as well as her own, she thought liis union 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


255 


with Lucia would be the happiest thing possible, 
and straightway she visited several convents and 
orphan asylums to have prayers offered for her 
intention. 

Those holy women and innocent little ones are 
set to praying for strange things sometimes with- 
out knowing it; but prayer is one of those treas- 
ures which are never lost. If it is not the will 
of Almighty God to answer them in one case, He 
pours them out in His all-wise mercy, like heal- 
ing balms, where they are most needed. 

Frank Yellott made no pretence at home of 
attending practically to the duties of his religion; 
his set were nominal Protestants and Free 
Thinkers; fast, stylish young fellows who made 
witty and sarcastic jests on sacred things — jests 
that passed with them for wit — and above all, 
they ridiculed the Catholic religion in a way 
which made him ashamed of it, their three points 
of attack being, first, “that none but the ignor- 
ant and poor attended the churches; second, that 
it was politically antagonistic to free government; 
and third, that it was a priest-ridden and ido- 
latrical system,” which arguments struck like 
barbed arrows deep into the most vulnerable 
parts of his being — his pride, his American ideas 
of liberty, and his pride of intellect. Added to 
these influences, it was the fashion about this 
period, when Voltaire’s baleful genius began to 
throw its sulphurous lights over the minds of the 
youth of the country, and Tom Paine’s infidel 
doctrines, clothed in the choicest flowers of rhet- 
oric and finely rounded periods, insinuated a 
deadly venom into their souls, to make a boast 
of principles which, if not openly infidel, tended 
none the less towards a deep-seated opposition to 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


256 

Christianity. Frank Yellott’ s set were of this 
stamp, and their wealth and position gave their 
sentiments a weight in his estimation, which 
before long began to make him think that re- 
ligious belief was a superstitions weakness unbe- 
coming the true dignity of a man. 

Mrs. Yellott, as we know, loved her children 
supremely and selfishly, and having discovered 
something of her son’s false sentiments, it was 
with a feeling of unutterable relief that she read 
the letter from which we make the extract. 
Such a relief, too, in connection with her tem- 
poral affairs, for with such prospects, her credit- 
ors would not press her. 

And now, with mingled deference and assid- 
uity, Frank Yellott opened his campaign. Self- 
possessed and watchful, he was ever on the alert 
to render Lucia some little service without an 
appearance of obtrusiveness; he was passionately 
fond of music, and having a naturally fine tenor, 
he sang with her entrancing selections from 
the Italian and German masters, and also the 
sacred melodies in which her soul, no less than 
her artistic taste, delighted. Allan Brooke’s 
great, simple, trusting heart was full of the hap- 
piest anticipations that were almost like the day- 
dreams of his youth, as he watched this growing, 
and as he hoped, mutual attachment. Lucia, 
distrustful at first, barely tolerated his attentions; 
but they were so skilfully regulated and marked 
by so much delicacy, that she began to reproach 
herself for so persistent a dislike without being 
able to show good cause for it. It was senseless, 
prudish and uncharitable, and she would turn 
over a new leaf. Then she became more gra- 
cious; in haste to repair her fault, she allowed 


257 


zoe’s DAUGHTER. 

him to accompany her on horseback in her rides 
over the country, to row and sail with her, and 
began to treat him altogether as a near kinsman. 
There was only one spot where he could not 
accompany her, and that was to her mother’s 
grave. When going there, she * invariably 
slipped off without seeing him, or declined his 
offers to go with her, courteously, firmly, but 
without excuse or apology. She was pleased 
above all to note his devout manner in church, 
his reverent attention to the sacred rites, and 
the gravity of his conversation when religion 
formed the topic; and so, after a while, she lost 
all distrust of him, and their intercourse was of 
the most friendly character. 

Maum Chloe disapproved altogether, and it 
was not long before she made an opportunity to 
deliver herself on the subject to Lucia. 

44 I does not like Mars’ Frank, honey, and 
’tain’t no use try in’. It ’pears to me I al’ays 
feels somethin’ tinglin’ in my backbone when 
I looks at him good — a feelin’ like I has when 
I sees a caterpillar, and I hates a caterpillar 
worse’ n a snake. Lord forgive me, but you 
take keer, my purty; don’t you git to thinkin’ 
too much ’bout him, nohow.” 

44 1 must be kind to my Guardy’s nephew, you 
unreasonable old Maummy; you know he’s our 
guest,” said Lucia, unwilling to discuss the sub- 
ject from that point of view with Maum Chloe. 
“I give myself no uneasiness about such mat- 
ters; I have placed them all in the hands of our 
Blessed Lady, and she will protect and guide me 
in my choice, if I ever marry. But I am so 
very, very happy here just as I am, you dear old 
simpleton; why should I want to trouble myself 
about Frank Yellott or any one else?” 

17 


258 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


“ Ah, honey, your time’s got to come,” an- 
swered Maum Chloe, shaking her head. “It's 
like the measles and the ’hoopin’ cough — took 
nateral. Thar’s no use say in’ you’ll do this, or 
that, or t’other; it’s bound to come. Some gits 
over them ’ar complaints safe and sound; some 
dies; some goes blind, or gets so racked out with 
’em, that they suffers all their days along of ’em. 
I does hope our Lily Lady ’ll keep you outen 
harm’s way — I do trust she will, my baby.” 

“ I trust her, my dear old Maum,” said Lucia, 
smoothing Maum Chloe’ s brown wrinkled cheek 
with her long, soft hand. “But come now, 
don’t you want me to read about Tobit?” 

“In course I does. I always likes to hear 
’bout Tobit. But you must mind one thing, my 
purty; Ole Scratch gits into men by whiles like 
he got into that gal Tobit married, and ’tain’t 
likely if you happen to get one of that sort that 
you’ll meet a angel like he did, to tell you what 
to do; and ’member anyway, thar ain’t any of 
them kind of fish in the Potomac like what he 
cotch,” said Maum Coloe, thinking in her heart 
all the time of Frank Yellott. 

“Do you see this, Maummy,” said Lucia 
laughing, as she held up her rosary of plain 
black beads strung upon steel wire, and shook 
them playfully before her eyes. “This is my 
fish, my ointment, my angel, my help, and it 
has never failed me yet. ’ ’ 

“Ah, well! well! young folks al’ays looks up, 
and I reckon they’s right; it’s only we’ uns as is 
ole and shaky as goes ’long lookin’ down, afeard 
of the mire, and snakes, and stones under foot. 
An’ I don’t like Mars’ Allan’s looks nuther; it 
worrits me. He was took that dizzy yesterday 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


259 


when he got up suddint outen his chair, that he 
cotch holt of me to keep from failin’; then he 
purtended he’d stumbled, when tliar wasn’t a 
blessed thing to stumble agin. I don’t like it.” 

“Guardy gets the cramp in his foot sometimes, 
and I suppose it seized him then,” said Lucia, 
impressed in spite of herself by the old negro’s 
frequent allusion to her master’s symptoms. 

“Do he have the cramp? well thar’s nuthin’ 
wuss than cramp, only ’tain’t dang’ous!” said 
Maum Chloe, with a look of infinite relief. “I’ll 
git a eel-skin to tie round his leg this blessed 
day, if that’s all. ” 

Then Lucia opened the old Bible — it wouldn’t 
have sounded the same to Maum Chloe out of 
any other — and read to her, while she sat on a 
low chair near the window darning with diffi- 
culty, scarcely able to find the mesh to put her 
needle in, and instead of “take up two and leave 
two,” her stitches were far apart and like cats’ 
teeth; but nobody dared suggest spectacles, she 
was jealous to the last degree of her usefulness, 
and it seemed to throw a doubt upon it for any- 
thing to be said which conveyed an idea that she 
was getting old. 

Allan Brooke and Frank Yellott came back in 
high glee from St. Inigoes, where they had 
spent the day with Father Jannison, helping him 
to look over old papers, and decipher records, 
made on parchments mildewed and worm-eaten. 
But their labors were rewarded by finding a 
venerable account, in the handwriting 1 of Father 
White himself, of the first landing of the Catho- 
lic pilgrims in Maryland. Lucia was quite 
enthused by the account, and so eager to hear it, 
that Allan Brooke promised to read it to her 


26 o 


ZOIC’S DAUGHTER. 


after tea, Frank Yellott having made a copy of 
it; and as it possesses great historic interest we 
will transcribe it, with the opinion that St. 
Inigoes is far worthier of the homage and re- 
membrance of Catholics, than Plymouth Rock is 
of that of the Puritans. 


26 i 


ZOi’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE OLD PAST, AND THE FUTURE. 

“ Now Guardy if you are settled to your en- 
tire satisfaction — is the cushion just right? — so 
— you’ll please let me hear about St. Inigoes. 
Is there any thing in that paper about the beau- 
tiful Miss Brent, Lord Baltimore’s niece, who 
was carried off by Clerborne’s pirates?” said 
Lucia, as she wheeled a low chair near her guar- 
dian and threw herself with indolent grace into 
it, hungry to hear about the landing of the 
Catholic pilgrims upon the virgin shores of Mary- 
land. 1 

“No, there’s nothing about beautiful young 
ladies in the account,” replied Allan Brooke, un- 
folding the paper; “it is only a simple and truth- 
ful record of events, relating to the early settle- 
ment of Maryland, evidently written by one of 
the companions of Father White, perhaps by 
himself, and shows the difficulties and dangers 
Lord Baltimore and his little company encoun- 
tered in planting the cross upon these shores; 
and it also gives indubitable proof, my child, 
that the grand principle of FREEDOM OF 
CONSCIENCE was first promulgated and prac- 
ticed on this continent by those same Catholic 
pilgrims; for while the Puritans of Massachusetts 
were persecuting the Episcopalians, and the Epis- 
copalians in their turn were driving the Puri- 
tans out of Virginia, the Catholics of Maryland 


262 ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 

alone appreciated the true charity of the Gos- 
pel, by giving equal protection to all and opening 
their doors to sufferers of every denomination. 

“Well now, Guardy, I want to know why a 
monument, or memorial of some sort, has never 
been erected at St. Inigoes to perpetuate that 
fact? It is one for Catholics to take a noble 
pride in, and is a living contradiction of the 
slanderous charge of intolerance brought by 
Protestant writers against the Church, which 
like the dear Lord has ever taught the new com- 
mandment in a spirit of perfect charity toward 
all. Can’t we do something to inaugurate so 
noble a work?” 

“I have been thinking of ity, Father Jannison 
and I have had numerous talks about it, and if 
I live another year, I think the work will be at 
least begun. ’ ’ 

“That’s good news, Guardy ! What a lesson 
the pyramids would have preached through the 
centuries had they been erected to perpetuate 
some ennobling principle like that of self-sacri- 
fice for the good of others, or the divine precept 
of goodwill to men ! Why, Guardy, in the old, 
old times when men had visions of God, or were 
visited by His angels, with whom they wrestled 
in the wilderness, they always raised a memorial 
of stone upon the spot to let the nations know 
it was holy ground. Why then should not a 
place so consecrated as is St. Inigoes, by a divine 
v charity, by the wrestling of saintly men with 
; dangers and death for the salvation of souls, and 
daring all perils to plant the altars of faith in the 
wilderness, have its memorial stone? Oh, it 
must be done! I shall never rest until it is be- 
gun !” exclaimed Lncia, radiant with enthusi- 
astic purpose. 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


263 

“You are right, my darling,” replied Allan 
Brooke, looking with fond eyes upon her. “I 
am glad that our sentiments accord so perfectly 
on this point, for I intend making not only a 
provision by will for the purpose, but will have 
a fund for the continuance of the good work. 
As soon as ever some regularly-organized plan 
is settled upon, I will add a codicil to my will 
for its execution. But you know the old adage, 
‘Rome was not built in a day,’ and we must be 
patient until all things are ready.” 

“Waiting is a hard curb, particularly when 
the spurs of our own will are sharp and keen. 
Pardon me, Guardy, for the horsey comparison; 
but it slipped out, suggested, I suppose, by see- 
ing Frank Yellott galloping down the avenue on 
Beelzebub, whom he does not know in the least 
how to manage. Where can he be going? ” 

“He had an engagement to dine with the 
Ogles, and asked me to make his excuse to you, 
which I quite forgot.” 

“The Ogles are a gay lot, aren’t they?” 

“Yes,” he answered dryly; and there the sub- 
ject dropped. But Rucia observed that his lips 
were rigidly closed, and she saw that he sup- 
pressed a sigh, while he adjusted his spectacles 
and smobthed out the manuscript on his knee. 

“That portion of North America,” he began, 
“which now forms the State of Maryland, was 
granted by King Charles I. to George Calvert, 
created Baron of Baltimore in Ireland, by 
James I., about the year 1623. The grant bears 
date 1631. Sir George having died, the grant 
was afterward made to his son and heir Cecilius, 
Baron of Baltimore, bearing date the 20th of 
June, 1632. After obtaining this grant, Rord 


264 ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 

Baltimore sent his brother, Leonard Calvert, Esq. , 
accompanied by other Catholics and their attend- 
ants, to the number of between two and three 
hundred, for the purpose of founding a colony. 
The adventurers are represented to have been per- 
sons of considerable wealth and distinction, who 
left their native land to avoid the inconvenience of 
religious intolerance. They set sail from Cowes, 
in the Isle of Wight, on the 22d of November, 
1633, an ^ they arrived on the 20th of February 
following, at a place which they called ‘ Point 
Comfort,’* in Virginia, a narrow and barren 
point of sand jutting out from the mainland into 
the Chesapeake Bay. They shortly afterward 
steered their course up the Chesapeake, and en- 
tering the broad mouth of the Potomac, sailed 
about nine leagues, when they leached a large 
and beautiful island, which they called St. 
Clement’s, but which afterwards bore the name 
of St. George’s. 

Here they effected a landing, and immediately 
proceeded to plant a cross. A11 altar was shortly 
after erected, on which the holy sacrifice of the 
Mass was offered. At first it was their intention 
to commence their settlement on this island, but 
after having explored the Potomac as far up as 
Piscatawav, examined the country, and given 
names to several places, they finally selected for 
their first colony an Indian settlement, called in 
the Indian dialect Yao-conoco, but which they 
afterwards named St. Mary’s. This village was 
situated on the eastern bank of the St. Mary’s 
river, distant about eight miles from its mouth. 
Thither, then, they directed their course, and 


*Now better known as Fortress Monroe. 


ZOIS’S DAUGHTER. 265 

without molestation from the Indians, effected 
their landing on the 25th of March, 1634. 

Calvert began by making a free and fair pur- 
chase of this land from the Indians, as well as of 
circumjacent lands, for which he paid them lib- 
erally in articles suited to their way of life, which 
he had brought from England for the purpose. 

The prudence and justice which dictated this 
policy appear to have governed the subsequent 
proceedings also of the Proprietary and his 
officers in extending their limits of possession, 
and to have produced an entire good understand- 
ing and a friendly intercourse with the natives. 
Among the individuals who accompanied Leon- 
ard Calvert were Rev. Fathers Andrew White, 
Copley and Altham, and one or two lay-brothers, 
all members of the Society of Jesus A 

“These holy men,” — Allan Brooke inter- 
rupted his reading to say — “ had been solicited by 
the Proprietary, especially the first named, on ac- 
count of his singular merit, to embark with the 
settlers on an expedition which they could not 
but foresee would be the means of gaining many 
souls to God. Accordingly we see them uniting 
in the great and good work with a truly aposto- 
lic zeal, and sharing among the foremost the 
privations and hardships of the enterprise.” 

Then resuming — “The first object the fathers 
had in view was to erect a house wherein to 
celebrate the Sacred Mysteries for the present, 
with becoming decency, until such time when a 
more appropriate temple might be erected. This 
was effected without much labor. A rude yet 
sufficiently capacious building was soon seen to 
rise above the humble huts of the natives, hav- 
ing convenient to it a house large enough to ac- 


266 ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 

commodate the fathers on their retiring from the 
labors of the day. The greatest harmony ex- 
isted between the settlers and the Indians. 
They hunted together and shared equally the 
fruits of the chase. The female settlers taught 
the Indian women the catechism, and how to 
spin and weave. 

“So deeply were the Indians impressed with 
the justice of the colonists on all occasions, and 
so great was the confidence they reposed in 
them, that a chief among the Patuxents was 
heard to say: ‘I love the English so well, that 
even were they about to kill me, had I breath 
enough to speak I would command my people 
not to avenge my death; for 1 know they would 
not do it except through my fault.’ 

“This good understanding continued undis- 
turbed until the year 1638. The great bane and 
evil genius of Maryland was one Captain William 
Clerborne. This man from the very beginning, 
had proved himself an active and intolerant 
enemy of the infant colony of Lord Baltimore. 
As early as the year 1631, he had obtained from 
the home government a license to trade in these 
parts of America (although an exclusive patent 
for that purpose had been granted before) and 
under that authority had begun to plant a colony 
on Kent Island, and laid claim by right of 
prior settlement to that and other lands compre- 
hended in Lord Baltimore’s grant. This claim 
Lord Baltimore would by no means allow. After a 
contest for some years, not without bloodshed, 
Clerborne had recourse to other measures. He 
represented his claims and wrongs in a petition to 
the King, who referred the whole matter in dis- 
pute to the Commission of Colonies, and it was 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


267 

by them finally decided that the land in question 
belonged to Lord Baltimore, as no plantation or 
trade with the Indians ought to be allowed 
within the limits of his patent without his per- 
mission. After this Clerborne was resolved to 
go any length, and not only refused obedience, 
but, joining one Captain Richard Ingle, raised 
through his means in 1644 an insurrection against 
the Proprietary’s Government, forcing him to 
fly into Virginia for protection and aid. The 
insurgents seized upon the records, and the great 
seal (which was never recovered) and plunged 
the peaceful little settlement into all the horrors 
of anarchy and intestine war for the space of 
about five years, at the end of which the govern- 
ment was re-established, and a free pardon, with 
some particular exceptions, was extended to the 
authors and abettors of the disturbance. Lord 
Baltimore did not forget to reward those who 
had taken the lead in opposing this dangerous 
insurrection, as appears by several grants made 
them of lands and manors. Clerborne, in the 
meantime, had been arrested, indicted, found 
guilty of murder, piracy and sedition, but made 
his escape, and his estate was confiscated. 

“ The Catholics of Maryland had been greatly 
oppressed and persecuted in their own country. 
The most unjust and unheard-of laws had been 
passed, by which, for more than a century, they 
had been made to suffer the most grievous pen- 
alties on account of their religion. How easily 
could they have retaliated on the present occasion, 
had they been so disposed, upon their enemies? 
But no, such was not their spirit, nor the spirit 
of their Divine Founder. With a nobleness of 
soul and a generosity unrivalled, the utmost 


268 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


freedom was allowed in religion to Christians of 
all denominations who should come into the 
province. Sufferers of every persuasion were 
alike protected by her laws, and as early as 1637 
the oath of the Governor and Council had been 
1 1 will not directly or indirectly trouble, molest, 
or discountenance, any person professing to be- 
lieve in Jesus Christ, or in respect of religion.’* 

“And so,” he concluded, “those who were 
driven by cruel intolerance from the other colo- 
nies of the New World sought and found freedom 
of conscience where — owing to the ideas in 
which they had been educated of bitterness and 
animosity towards the Catholic Church — they 
had the least expectation of finding it.” 

“That is all deeply interesting Guardy, and so 
suggestive to the imagination as well as to the 
mind ! St. Inigoes is classic as well as holy 
ground; and every spot there, the ruins of Lord 
Baltimore’s house, the site of the Indiati vil- 
lage — in fact every foot of ground round and 
about that place, is invested with a new interest. 
I shall go over there to spend the day to-morrow 
and dream it all over, and see with the eyes of 
my imagination the grave gentle pilgrims, their 
rude huts, their humble chapel, the wigwams 
of the Indians, the men flitting here and there 
in their scarlet feathers and gay blankets, and 
the women scarcely less grotesquely attired 
pursuing their avocations without fear or moles- 
tation. Oh, what a picture I could make of it 
if I were only a painter! ” exclaimed Lucia, 
folding her hands together and looking as if she 
saw it all before her. 

* Copied verbatim from the old records at St. Inigoes. 


zoe’s daughter. 269 

“Yes, those were stirring days. We give 
honor to men who venture their lives in the inter- 
ests of science in strange lands, unknown seas, 
and among barbarous peoples; but the world has 
small honor for those who brave every peril to 
carry the light of faith to ‘ those who sit in 
darkness.’ I shall not be satisfied until we 
make a beginning to perpetuate in marble and 
brass the landing of the Catholic pilgrims of 
Maryland. General Washington once expressed 
a hope to my father that it would be done, for he 
had a most enthusiastic admiration for Lord 
Baltimore and his brave company. But let me 
hear something now about your great plans for 
the people at ‘ Haylands;’ this is the first oppor- 
tunity we have had to talk them over since we 
got home.” 

“Oh!” said Lucia, with a little laugh, while 
the color deepened in her cheeks, “I am think- 
ing them over; making what you lawyers call a 
digest of them. But let me tell you something, 
Guardy, I want a big room to begin with — a 
regular work-room — I won’t call it a school- 
room, although I 'do mean to teach in it despite 
the Vandal laws of your State to the contrary.” 

“You will have to be careful, my child. 
Such reforms are looked upon with jealousy, and 
give offence, which fact proves that progress and 
slavery cannot march together.” 

“I intend to be as wise as a nest of serpents 
and as haruiless as a brood of doves, my dear 
Guardy. I will keep just within the edge of the 
letter of the law — trust me for that. But I must 
have a great big airy room built somewhere.” 

“As it is only an experiment, my child, how 
would the old tobacco-house answer, if fitted up 


270 


ZOIv’S DAUGHTER. 


and whitewashed, to begin with? It is in a 
beautiful situation, and large enough for a 
meeting-house. ’ ’ 

“The very thing; I shall fancy myself in the 
old Indian Church of the Catholic pilgrims! 
To-morrow I am going to collect all the young 
Arabs of the plantation and have a sort of re- 
view. Are you prepared, Guardy, to stand treat 
of a pint of molasses all round?” she answered, 
laughing. 

“Ah, Eucia, Eucia,” he said, laughingheartily, 
“is that the way you are going to work? going 
to buy them over with molasses !” 

“Yes, and anything else they have a fondness 
for. You never saw all those marvellously 
bright prints of scripture scenes and the saints I 
bought in Paris; and I have got the most as- 
tonishing collection of beads and flowered cali- 
coes and gay flannels you ever beheld.* I’m 
going to teach them to make their own clothes, 
how to knit and spin, and all sorts of things.” 

“And how about the interdicted branches?” 
he asked, amused. 

“I am going to give every soul of them a box 
of letter blocks; and if they have curiosity 
enough to want to know what the signs on them 
mean, why I shall tell them, and give them hints 
that will help them on. You know my maid 
reads and writes, and plays upon the piano almost 
as well as I do. I taught her on the free soil of 
Europe. Oh, we shall do splendidly.” 

“ Tittle dreamer !” said Allan Brooke, rising; 
then he paused beside her chair, and smoothing 
her hair with soft tender touches, said, as he 
looked away toward “Buckrae,” “Do as you 
please; do as you please; only don’t spoil them 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


271 

with thoughts incompatible with their condition, 
lest some day they come to hurt through it.” 

“How? what do you mean, Guardy?” she 
asked quickly. 

“ ‘Hay lands’ may not always be their home, 
you know, ’ ’ he answered, with a sad inflection in 
his voice that started Lucia. 

“You wouldn’t sell them away, not one of 
them, would you?” she said, her eyes dilated 
with a look of grieved surprise. 

“No, I have never trafficked in human flesh 
and blood, my child, but the day will come when 
my estate must be divided, you know — when 
they will be scattered far and wide, how or where 
it is impossible for me to tell.” 

“ Look here Guardy, look right into my face” 
— rising and holding both his hands in hers, 
while she looked him steadily in the eyes — 
“What do you mean by such talk as this? 
Aren’t you well? I won’t have you talking so; 
it brings back like a horrible dream all the dark 
chaos o,f my child-life, and everything rushes 
like a wave right up to my head.” Tears were 
streaming over her face now. 

“Well? Of course I’m well. Look at me,” 
he answered, holding himself erect and squaring 
his broad shoulders, which had grown to stoop 
lately: “ Do I look ailing? Did you ever see a 
better specimen of a healthy ‘ old Virginia gen- 
tleman,’ I’d like to know?” 

‘ ‘ How could you scare me so, Guardy ? Of 
course you look in perfect health,” she said, 
smiling thro’ her tears, which he playfully 
brushed from her cheek, quoting “ ‘The rose has 
been washed, just washed in a shower ; ’ but 
come my child, let us go in and play Palestrina’s 


272 


zoic’s daughter. 


Dominus regit me. It will clothe the skeleton I 
have raised in your thought in the white raiment 
of peace, and make you never wish that your old 
Guardy should be immortal. How sublime the 
words: ‘ For tho’ I walk thro’ the Valley of the 
Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for Thou 
art with me. Thy rod and Thy staff have com- 
forted me. Thou hast prepared a table for me 
against them that afflict me; Thou hast anointed 
my head with oil, and my chalice, which in- 
ebriateth me, how goodly is it?’ * 

By this time they had reached the music room. 
Lucia thought of her dream long ago, and felt as 
if the veil of mist out of which her mother’s form 
had issued, out of which had come the Mother of 
Sorrows to crown her head with thorns, were 
gathering around her; the shock caused by the 
thought of losing this one true strong friend, even 
at some remote time, had never entered her 
mind: her present had always so satisfied her 
that in the bright years since she came to “Hay- 
lands” she never thought of looking beyond it; 
but now by some psychological force and sym- 
pathy, or prevision, the effect upon her was far 
greater than her guardian’s allusion seemed to 
warrant, and she thought so herself presently, 
when the grand notes of the anthem began to 
rise and throb around her, and her voice blend- 
ing with his, sang the sublimely touching words. 

Allan Brooke rarely made reference to his inner 
life; it was his sanctuary, the curtain whereof 
was never lifted, and this glimpse of it was the 
first Lucia had ever had. But from that hour he 
was invested with a new and sacred interest to 
her, although the conversation and incident were 
never again alluded to by either. 

* Twenty-second Psalm. 


273 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE SHADOW OF CLOUDS. 

Frank Yellott met a gay party at “Mary- 
hall,” the spacious and hospitable country-seat 
of the Ogles, who were never happier than when 
it was crowded with guests. On this occasion 
the company was choice and brilliant; the beau- 
tiful Caton sisters, the fair Ridouts, the bright 
Howards, Miss Fairfax, graceful Nellie Tee, 
and other gay belles, who were noted not only 
for their personal attractions, but for the more 
weighty charm of being possessors in their own 
right of broad acres and numerous slaves, were 
there — a galaxy of rare loveliness that brought to 
“Maryhall” all the young bloods of South 
Maryland and the Virginia neighborhood for 
miles around. There was a perpetual flow of 
merriment and gayety kept up and enjoyed in 
the hearty fashion of the times by the light- 
hearted young people, and Frank Yellott found 
himself in the midst of congenial spirits, whose 
lead he had no scruple in following. It was a 
relief to him to get into such society after the 
humdrum quiet of “ Haylands,” of which he was 
heartily sick, and he yielded himself without re- 
serve to its fascinations, more than charmed to 
find himself the object of the beautiful Betsey 
Catou’s flirtations. 

The routine of pleasure at “Maryhall” was 
innocent enough as the world goes; none of the 
18 


274 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 


people there pretended to be religious, and like 
butterflies lived only in the enjoyment of present 
sunshine; but we cannot say as much for the 
orgies held at one or two bachelor establishments 
some eight or ten miles distant, where the gen- 
tlemen adjourned after saying “Good-night ” at 
the Hall, spending the hours until sunrise in 
deep play and hard drinking, and such carousals 
as left them with blood-shot eyes, unsteady 
hands, aching heads and burning thirst until 
noon-day, when by the aid of copious draughts of 
brandy and soda and strong coffee, their energies 
were sufficiently restored for them to make their 
toilets, mount their horses and gallop down to 
“Maryhall” to renew their homage to its fair 
inmates. It was a jolly life, Frank Yellott 
thought; he had never had so roistering a time, 
nor met a set of fellows so completely after his 
own heart; but he felt it incumbent on him to 
make a show of shortening a visit which had 
already extended — unexpectedly to himself — 
over several days. His generous host and hostess 
would not accept his adieux, however, the ladies 
threatened never to speak to him again if he 
went, and the gentlemen of the party declared 
they would black-ball him. He scarcely needed 
all this opposition to induce him to remain, but 
he was glad of it, for it left him without excuse, 
and he yielded gracefully to the pressure, and 
with skilful tact devoted himself more than ever 
to the beautiful Betsey Caton. Thinking of 
Lucia, in contrast to her, he got to feel himself 
an injured man, to be tied by the interests of his 
family to a woman so pious that, if he married 
her, she would be a constant living rebuke to him 
— for he had not the remotest thought of alter- 


2 75 


ZOt'S DAUGHTKR. 

ing his mode of life, he only wanted the means 
of indulgence to carry out his peculiar ideas of 
enjoyment, and as he would have to marry a rich 
wife to secure those means, he did not want one 
who would be a perpetual bar and hindrance to 
him. Here w^as one he thought within his reach, 
beautiful, spirited, full of dash and wit, and 
withal rich enough — in short, she was just the 
thing. 

He wrote to his uncle, saying that his new 
friends had made a series of engagements for 
him, which he could not get out of without 
almost offending them, and' he wished his serv- 
ant to bring him some changes of clothing 
which he ordered. He concluded with a message 
to Lucia, couched in the most delicate and 
friendly terms. Lucia was heartily glad to hear 
that he was enjoying himself, and more than 
glad that he was not at “Haylands” just then, 
to interrupt her plans, about which she was very 
busy. 

While Allan Brooke and Lucia were talking 
over their coffee about Frank (he rather mood- 
ily), the following conversation was taking place 
in a nook of the drawing-room at “Mary hall,” 
between that young gentleman and Miss Caton. 

“I hear,” she said, “that Miss D’Olivieras is 
very beautiful.” 

A bewitching smile was on her lips, and 
she flirted her large Spanish fan, which glittered 
with spangles and jewels set cunningly into the 
ivory fra me- work. 

“She is not flauntingly beautiful; but she is — 
yes — she is exquisitely pretty.” 

“Only that, now, upon your honor?” 

“Well, to be quite frank, I once thought Miss 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


276 

D’Oli vieras peerlessly beautiful; since then, I 
have seen another even more fair.” 

“How strange! How very wonderful the 
beauty of the other must be. -Where may she 
be seen ? ’ ’ 

“I am happy to be able to gratify you. I 
will show you her miniature,” he said, drawing 
from his vest pocket a small oval mirror, set in 
mothei-of-pearl and gold, and holding it before 
the proud, sparkling face.. 

“Has Miss D’Olivieras much expression?” 
she asked, blushing slightly, as she put away the 
mirror with her fan. 

“No, Miss D’Olivieras lacks expression — she is 
devote , and would make a beautiful St. Agnes, 
but her face is cold — but perhaps I cannot ap- 
preciate such perfection, it rebukes me and 
makes me feel what a sinner I am.” 

“And have you the grace to cry me a culpa? 
Miss D’Olivieras must be a rare being, to exert 
such influence. Let us hope that she may in 
time convert you.” 

“Miss Caton, this is the age of reason; 
brighter lights are chasing away musty old su- 
perstitions,” he answered, inspired by his evil 
genius. “Men will no longer submit to be 
priest-ridden. Voltaire the Thinker has driven 
out Christ the Fable.” 

“Mr. Yellott,” said Miss Caton, rising in all 
the stateliness and grace of her rare beauty. “I 
may not listen to such sentiments. I am a 
devout believer in, and a member of the Catho- 
lic faith; and sincerely hope that you only affect 
the dangerous ideas you express.” 

“ You judge rightly, Miss Caton,” he replied 
with quick consummate tact, while he mentally 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


277 

ground his teeth over the blunder he had made. 
“I am but jesting; I am myself a Catholic.” 

“A Catholic,” she said, opening wide her 
great brown eyes, and looking at him as she 
might have looked had some trick of magic 
changed a man into a reptile. “I cannot under- 
stand, Mr. Yellott, how a Catholic can so far for- 
get his loyalty to his faith as to assume even for 
a single instant the guise of its most deadly ene- 
mies. I wish you most earnestly a better under- 
standing of its obligation.” And bending her 
proud head with stately courtesy she moved 
away. 

“You are severe, Miss Caton,” he said, also 
rising. “The jest was in bad taste', if you will, 
but — ” 

“You will excuse me, if I leave you — I have 
letters to write,” was her sole response, as she 
swept out of the room, leaving him to his own 
thoughts. 

How he swore under his breath; how he cursed 
the stupidity, which had bathed him so ignomin- 
iously at the outset of his new designs; how he 
cursed his blunder and himself, we cannot sully 
our pages by relating; we will only record the 
sad fact that his rage culminated in his cursing 
his faith with deep and bitter blasphemies. 

Then he rushed from the house, and mount- 
ing his horse, which his groom had been walk- 
ing up and down the gravelled drive for a 
half-hour or more, he dug his spur-rowel deep 
into the tine animal’s sides, and galloped off in 
break-neck style. That night he spent at 
Bachelor Sith’s, and drank so deeply that even 
the men around him, accustomed to that sort of 
thing, feared he would peril his life, and to put 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


278 

a stop to it drugged his brandy and called in the 
servants to take him up bodily, as soon as the 
drug took effect. 

Meanwhile Lucia was getting on slowly with 
her plans. The old tobacco- house was cleansed 
and whitewashed, and at last one bright morn- 
ing, by Mautn Chloe’s energetic efforts, was filled 
with barefooted, almost naked children of the 
plantation — children of every hue, from ebony so 
intense that they looked like effigies of the 
ancient plague of darkness, up through every 
gradation of color to almost white. It was a day 
of inexpressible weariness and discouragement, 
which was not helped by Maum Chloe’s sniffs, 
and oft-repeated “I told you so!” while an oc- 
casional shake or tweak of the ear attested her 
appreciation of the stupidity of the young as- 
pirants for knowledge. Lucia never dreamed of 
such moral darkness, such dense ignorance, as 
she discovered in her neophytes, and it some- 
times touched so closely on the grotesque and 
ludicrous that she could with difficulty comraand 
her countenance. Her first object was to find 
out how far they were enlightened, in a Chris- 
tian sense, and with this view she ranged them 
in two large semicircles before her table — the 
smaller children in front; and when the shuffling 
of their dirt-crusted feet upon the board floor 
was over, and they stood silent and expectant, 
she asked them, “Who made you?” To her 
horror, a shrill voice answered, “I corned out 
o’ de ’ tater-patch ! ” while another cried out, “De 
crows fotch me!” and yet another announced in 
evident good faith, that she “Growed outen a 
tad-pole!” Then arose a clamor, all eager to 
show off; but Lucia lifting her hand, commanded 
silence. 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


279 


“Tell me, now, are there any here who can 
tell who made them? Do not speak unless you 
know,” she said in distinct, impressive tones. 

“Obi man.” 

“De big God up dar,” said one shyly. This 
was a glimpse of daylight to Lucia, and she an- 
swered : 

“Yes, child, God made you.” 

“Is God a black man, Missus?” asked one. 

“God made us all, black and white. He is 
our Creator, our Father, who placed us here 
that we might love Him and serve Him, and be 
saved forever. Now tell me who made you?” 

“God!” was the simultaneous answer. This 
was something for them to know; the founda- 
tion stone on which to build a knowledge unto 
eternal life in the minds of these benighted ones. 
Then Lucia uncovered a large crucifix upon her 
table, and pointing to the sorrowful image 
thereon, told them in simple, touching language 
the wonderful story of the redemption. The 
deepest interest was expressed in every dusky 
countenance, and tears glistened in many an 
eye; for they belonged to an emotional race 
quickly moved and easily touched. Lucia 
marked these good signs with thankfulness, 
thinking that the good seed had fallen on fallow 
ground; her courage was renewed, and she 
allowed them to throng around the table to get 
a nearer view of the image of Him who died for 
them. But she had not yet gauged the depths ^ 
of their ignorance. 

“Poor our Saviour!” said one, in low pitying 
accents — her skin was like ebony and her head 
crowned with a crop of wool so closely crinkled, 
that it looked like charred wood. ‘ ‘ Poor fellah ! ” * 

*A11 Lucia’s experiences that day are facts. 


28 o 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


Lucia lost her breath; her first impulse was to 
drive the young Arab out of her sight, but when 
she saw the genuine pity of her countenance 
and the tears, as precious in the sight of Him 
for whose bitter sufferings they were shed as 
were the Magdalen’s, her heart was moved with 
a great pity towards the untutored being, and she 
thought: “Here is a soul that will love Him 
when she learns to know Him, and such love 
will be better than offerings of gold, frankin- 
cense and myrrh.” 

“Was you dar, Missis, when the Jewses nailed 
Him to de tree?” she asked. 

“No,” speaking gently, “I was not there. 
It happened hundreds of years ago; but we must 
remember that when we do wrong, we too nail 
Him to the tree.” 

“Missis, wasdem Jewses Buckra folks?” asked 
one with a bright intelligent face. 

“I’d a — I’d — I’d a thro wed rocks at dem ar 
Jewses if I’d been dar !” stuttered another, in the 
same spirit that impelled St. Peter to cut off the 
ear of the High Priest’s servant. 

“I am now going,” said Lucia, covering the 
crucifix, “ to give each of you an apron, a pretty 
flowered calico apron, which Maum Chloe will 
teach you how to make; and if you will make 
the aprons nicely, then I will give you dresses, 
and she will cut them out and show you how to 
put them together.” 

There was great delight as Maum Chloe 
handed out the aprons, cut out and with the hems 
turned down, a needle and thread and a bright 
new brass thimble for each of them. There 
were but few of them who had ever had a needle 
in their fingers before, all of them being the 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


28l 


children of “field hands,” and beyond the civi- 
lizing influences of the “ gre’t house;” they did 
not know whether head or point went in first. 
Some of them put their thimbles on their 
thumbs, and altogether it was up-hill work — a 
stumbling-block to Lucia, and to Maum Chloe 
worse than foolishness. But presently a few of 
them began to learn how to make a stitch; and 
others comprehended that the needle was not to 
be put in the same place every time; and some, 
who had been making wild basting-thread pat- 
terns all over their work, were brought to their 
senses by a resounding crack of Maum Chloe’s 
knuckles upon their heads. 

But just now, when the crooked places showed 
some sign of being made straight, shrill shouts 
were heard, which drew nearer and nearer to the 
old tobacco-house from the direction of the 
“quarters,” and more than one angry-visaged 
mother appeared at the door, ordering their wild 
broods to “come home and ’tend to dar bisness 
’stead of idlin’ away dar time here doin’ nuffin!” 
“De pigs was all out rummagin’ an’ rootin’ up 
de bean patch !” complained one; “de hawk had 
done come an’ carried away de best young 
chicken, an’ nobody dar to skeer him off!” said 
another; while a third still more angrily declared 
that “not a weed had been hoed up and de hens 
had done gone and laid in de bush !” 

“They must remain a half hour longer,” said 
Lucia facing them with calm resolve; “and they 
are to come here every day at the same hour.” 

“I tell you what, Missis, you’s jest gwine to 
ruin deni niggers; dey won’t be wuth shucks,” 
said one of the women, scowling and tossing 
her head. 


282 


ZCX&’S DAUGHTER. 


“Dey can’t be spar’d, Missis, no how. We 
has to go to de fields to our tasks, and dar’s no- 
body home to take keer of miffin’,” said another, 
surlily. “Our chil’un’s no better’ n we’uns, 
and’ 11 have to get ’long like we’uns, and it’s no 
use to try and larn ’em nuffin’ — dey’s only nig- 
gers. ’ ’ 

“But they must come here for a few hours 
every day; the master has ordered it so. They 
will have plenty of time left to attend to the 
chickens and pigs and weeding out your gar- 
dens. Here, take this and make a pretty dress 
for your baby; and here’s a string of beads like 
gold for yours; and here’s a beautiful head-hand- 
kerchief for you,” said this artful missionary, 
handing out her gifts with a gracious and royal 
air. 

The women were won; they showed their 
white even teeth as they took their presents 
and went their ways, half in doubt and wholly 
pleased, yet not comprehending the new order 
of things. 

This was the beginning of Lucia’s self-imposed 
tasks, and she found each day new difficulties 
spreading out before her, which sometimes made 
her soul sway with unsuccessful effort, and re- 
quired all her strength of will and energy to 
surmount. She had fallen upon one expedient 
which made her work more pleasant: she taught 
the children to sing by ear several simple hymns 
which the keen sense of melody, characteristic 
of their race, enabled them to catch with avidity 
and render, in a wonderfully clear, sweet and pre- 
cise manner. Then — she scarcely knew how it 
was accomplished — they learned the “Our 
Father” and “Hail Mary,” and actually made 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 283 

some intelligent progress in catechism, very 
slowly, it is true, for the instructions were neces- 
sarily oral, but still it was satisfactory. Then 
Father Jannison came to visit her industrial 
school, and his words of good cheer gave her 
courage; it was like holding up her tired hands 
when he encouraged her to persevere in the good 
work she had undertaken. He gave each of the 
children a little picture, then gathered them 
around him, and in his sweet, holy way talked 
to them in simple language about many things 
which took root in their hearts, never to be for- 
gotten. He directed Maum Chloe to find out 
who among them had not been baptized. 

“I’ll do it, Father,” answered the old woman; 
“but them ’ar Baptisses — an’ thar’s a many of 
’em ’mongst our niggers — will give trouble, I’m 
’feared, for they don’t hold with baptizin’ of 
children.” 

“I’ll see to that, my child; we must do right, 
let who will object,” answered the good priest; 
“meanwhile, help Miss Fucia with all your 
heart and soul, for this is a great work.” 

Now Huda began to think she saw a little 
order growing out of chaos; there was certainly 
an improvement in the appearance of her young 
Arabs, not observable on the first day or two. 
Not that their toilettes were elaborate, by any 
means, for most of them wore only the short 
chemise, reaching just below the knees, made of 
coarse cotton cloth; but they washed their faces 
and hands until their skin looked like satin, 
and their bare feet were no longer crusted with 
the accumulated dirt of months. The aprons 
were progressing slowly, and with less picking 
out of cat-teeth stitches; and they knew that the 


284 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


Blessed Virgin, whom they called “our Lily 
Mother,” was the Mother of Him who died to 
save them. Some of them wished she had been 
a “black woman,” the idea being that it would 
bring them nearer to her; but they grew recon- 
ciled in time to being the children of “the 
Lord’s Lily Mother,” and not a day passed that 
they did not bring handfuls of wild flowers to 
lay upon the little shrine which Lucia had 
arranged, upon which stood her fair image. 

In all this time — two weeks — Lucia had nu- 
merous interruptions from visitors, many call- 
ing every day, and among them the Ogles and 
their guests. Invitations to parties, dinners and 
fetes poured in on her. Sad marplots they 
seemed to her; but Allan Brooke signified his 
desire that she would accept the offered civilities 
and return the visits, himself and Frank Yellott, 
who was again at “Havlands, ” accompanying 
her; and she soon found herself in a whirl of 
gaiety which so interfered with her good work 
that, determined not to be baffled, she called the 
children together two hours earlier, sacrificing 
her morning nap, of which she was dearly fond, in 
her great dread lest they should lose ground and 
get faint-hearted in their efforts. The working 
department — sewing, knitting and weaving 
fringe — she found might be safely entrusted to 
Maum Chloe and her maid, which enabled her 
to attend to her social duties with a lighter heart. 

Of course these innovations became the talk 
of the country side, and Miss D’Olivieras was 
voted eccentric, and her efforts denounced as 
dangerous precedents, which conflicted with the 
law respecting the education of slaves; but even 
this did not prevent Lucia’s beauty and grace 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


285 

from receiving their due meed of admiration, 
and she so won upon all, that she became the 
acknowledged “Queen of the County.” There 
were not wanting suitors for her favor, and 
she received more than one proposal of mar- 
riage from men who were looked upon by the 
mammas of the neighborhood as most eligible 
matches. She enjoyed it all in a way; it made 
her happy to see others so, and innocent amuse- 
ments and congenial society of her own age 
brought out all that was blithesome and gay in 
her temperament. 

But one day Lucia found out something that 
proved a thorn in her side. Thro’ the bantering 
of a friend she learned it was currently reported 
and believed that she was engaged to be married 
to Frank Yellott. Who could have circulated 
such a report? What could she do to disabuse 
the minds of people about it? It placed her in a 
delicate position. In this instance she could 
positively deny it; but who believes such de- 
nials? She could not run over the country 
declaring the report false, for Frank Yellott had 
never given her an opportunity either to accept 
or reject him. But it was very unpleasant, and 
she dreaded its getting to his ears, knowing that 
it would impose restraints on their now friendly 
intercourse, not pleasant to contemplate. He 
had succeeded with consummate skill in winning 
her confidence, and Lucia was one who, when 
she bestowed her friendship, did it in a magnifi- 
cent spirit, never doubting the object. Then 
came the humiliating thought that perhaps he 
would imagine, if he heard it, that she had her- 
self given some grounds for the report. Alto- 
gether it made her quite miserable, and she daily 


286 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


laid her cares, with all the sweet confidence of 
faith, before the Virgin most pure, invoking her 
aid and protection, finding her only comfort in 
so doing. 

One day when she and Allan Brooke sailed 
over to “Buckrae” with flowers to strew over 
the quiet graves on the bluff, she was moved by 
a strong impulse to tell him of her embarras-^ 
ment, and while she did so she observed that his^ 
face flushed and there was a look of intense in- 
quiry in his eyes, as if his heart was full of 
something that he desired, yet hesitated to say. 

“What is it, Guardy?” she asked. 

“Is the report very displeasing to you, my 
child?” he asked. 

“Only as far as it places me in a false posi- 
tion,” she said, quietly. 

“That is natural and womanly,” he said 
presently; “but, my child, tell me would such a 
thing be impossible, think you?” 

“I have never thought of it in that light, 
Guardy. I should be sorry to have such ideas 
in my head about Frank, whom I look upon as 
a brother. But why?” 

“Well — you know we have no secrets from 
each other — I will tell you. I have thought 
sometimes, lately, in view of such a possibility, 
that it would make me very happy; that is, my 
dear, if it made you so. Not for all the world 
would I influence you in such matters; you be- 
lieve that,” he said, lifting his hand. “I would 
rather see you dead thaiUsee you mated without 
your own free choice and consent. Your happi- 
ness is my chief and only temporal care.” 

“I believe you, my Guardy; I never fear you, 
but rely upon you with the same trusting faith 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


287 


that I do on Providence. I will open my heart 
to you without reservation. I have no senti- 
ment for Frank at present ; but, I think some- 
times I must be unlike most girls, for I have 
such strange unromantic ideas about marriage. 
It seems to me that a supreme respect and a con- 
fiding preference, founded on the qualities of 
mind and heart in the object, are the two great 
essentials of a true and happy union; above all a 
oneness of faith. I think there should be a dis- 
passionate consideration of the great responsibili- 
ties of marriage; a calm and determined resolve 
to fulfil the duties thereof, through weal and woe, 
and an elevated principle of honor to carry out 
scrupulously to the letter all the obligations of a 
mutual promise. As to all this sighing and 
dying and pining, called love, which throws so 
brief a glamour over most marriages, I never ex- 
pect nor desire to experience it,” said Lucia, a 
soft glow over her beautiful face, and an earnest, 
truthful light in her eyes. 

“What a heretic you are, my darling,” said 
Allan Brooke, secretly pleased, for he had 
marked her words, and noted that she had said 
with emphasis “ at present" when alluding to 
her feelings for Frank Yellott. “I’m afraid the 
grande passion will play havoc with you when 
it comes at some unlooked-for moment. 

“I hope not, Guardy. If I know myself I 
mean to hold the rudder bands of my heart 
under control, to guide it out of the way of 
shoals and quicksands,” she answered laughing; 
but at that very instant, deep down in her heart, 
came the whisper, “ Why not ? It would make 
his life happier, and I owe him so much.” But 
the subject was dropped, for they were now at 


288 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


“Buckrae,” at the new landing made by Bligh 
while they were abroad, near the bluff; and 
gathering up the flowers, they soon stood within 
the place of graves. 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 


289 


CHAPTER IV. 

DARK THREADS BEGIN TO BE WOVEN INTO 
LUCIA’ S LIFE. 

“Before we go away, Lucia,” said Allan 
Brooke as he leaned over fo arrange a vine of 
white clematis that had straggled away from 
Zoe’s grave, “I have something to say which 
has lain near my heart for a long time; some- 
thing which I desire you to regard with the 
solemnity of a last request, and consider quite as 
binding.” 

u Yes, Guardy !” she answered with a fright- 
ened look in her eyes. 

“It is not much, my child, except to myself; 
but I wish to be assured that it will be done. 
When I die, Lucia, let me be laid here near your 
mother’s grave.” 

“Yes, Guardy, if I outlive you it shall be as 
you say. But do not let us think of such a 
thing; I can’t bear it, Guardy; indeed I can’t,” 
said Lucia, with a choking sensation in her 
throat. 

“Thanks, my darling. Now there’s another 
thing I have to tell you which I have known 
some time, but did not mention it because I 
always dread giving you pain. The money left 
you by your mother, my child, which I invested 
for you in Baltimore bank-stock, and which has 
been increasing, interest and compound interest, 
19 


290 ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 

ever since, is all lost; the bank failed a short 
time ago, and will not pay one cent on the dol- 
lar,” he said with a troubled look. 

“Is that all, Guardy? I thought it was all 
gone long and merry ago. Why should you be 
troubled about it, dear?” said Lucia with a 
bright, careless smile. 

“Why indeed?” he answered, laughing. 
“Only that it was your own special property, 
left you by your mother, I shouldn’t have cared 
a snap. But we have enough left, little one, 
for our needs.” 

“I depend so entirely upon you, Guardy, that 
I never have a thought beyond the present,” 
she said, as she put her hand through his arm, 
with a look of confiding affection and trust, as 
they turned to leave the spot so dear to both. 

Days passed, and Frank Yellott hovered about 
Lucia, but not obtrusively, much of the time, 
and interested himself in her plans for the im- 
provement of the young plantation slaves. He 
sometimes laughed at her zeal, and made her 
laugh in spite of herself at the absurd caricatures 
he drew of her dusky pupils, but never left her 
with an impression that he disapproved of her 
efforts. On the contrary, he always assured her, 
after his badinage, that he considered the work 
not only heroic, but good in the highest degree. 

The Master sometimes made his appearance^ 
unexpectedly, at the old tobacco-house, at the 
busiest time, walked around, and examined the 
children’s work, saying a few kind words to 
each, and giving no charge except that they 
were to mind their “young mistress, who was 
so good to them;” upon which “the young 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


29I 


mistress” would give them a sign, and they 
would all strike up and sing something she had 
taught them, in such loud, sweet accord and 
true time as made the pulses of his heart beat 
louder and quicker — his emotional nature 
touched more than he could express by the 
fresh young voices and happy, smiling faces 
around him. 

Maum Chloe began to feel a little more hope- 
ful that some good was being done; and 
altogether things were going on well — as well as 
one could reasonably expect, where there were 
not only ignorance and superstition to contend 
with, but also an outside opposition from the 
older slaves, which had its own bad influence on 
many of the children. 

Lucia began to notice a change in Frank 
Yellott. He became very quiet, seldom rode 
out, and when company came usually strayed 
off to some unfrequented part of the grounds. 
He spoke once or twice of going home, and on 
one occasion, when he and Lucia were alone, 
walking along the river shore, remarked that it 
would “be better for him to have a millstone 
tied about his neck, and be thrown into the 
depths of the channel, than to go back to New 
York.” 

“You surprise me. What do you mean?” 
she asked. 

“I cannot explain, Lucia. I am a wayward 
fellow. I think sometimes that there’s an un- 
equal principle in my nature so prone to evil 
that it rules me with an iron hand.” 

“That sounds sentimental, Frank. It seems 
to me that a man’s will, which belongs to the 
higher order of his being, should be strong 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


292 

enough to hold a principle like that in check, to 
say nothing of religion, which is the holiest and 
best of all restraining power, ’ ’ said Lucia kindly. 

“Religion!’’ he repeated, with a cold smile 
and a gleam in his eyes which sent an involun- 
tary chill to her heart. “Look, Lucia,” he 
added, pointing down the river where a gray 
swan was floating right in the golden track of 
the sun, gracefully rocking on the waves, ever 
and anon arching its long neck and dipping its 
red beak swiftly into the shining waters to seize 
the prey for which it watched and waited. ‘ ‘ Can 
you imagine a poor soul in the case of that un- 
fortunate fish, which sporting along near the 
dazzling surface, blinded by the glory flashing 
around it, swims right into the jaws of destruc- 
tion? Is that fate? What is it? ” 

“It is nature, Frank Yellott; and as to fate, 
let infidels use the word; it does not belong to 
the vocabulary of a Christian,” said Lucia 
warmly. “Fish were made to be eaten, and 
herons were made to eat them ; how else could 
they live? When you draw 011 nature for analo- 
gies, don’t be so far-fetched.” 

“You are captious, this evening, I fear,” he 
said, after a short pause. 

“I beg your pardon, Frank, if I seem so. If 
you were not a Catholic I should probably be 
more patient; but your sentiments are not the 
sentiments of a true faith, I have noticed oftener 
than once, to be candid with you, and I cannot 
understand it all.” . 

“You would pity more than blame, perhaps, 
if you knew all that has overshadowed my life. 
I have dark hours of doubt and blankness. 
Lucia, to which all the helpless ignorance and 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


293 


blindness of the negro brood you have taken in 
hand to help, is primitive innocence and a hope- 
ful enlightenment by comparison. But how 
did this conversation begin?” he inquired, look- 
ing up as if suddenly awakening from a dark 
dream; “let us talk of something more agree- 
able.” Then before Lucia could reply he began 
to rattle in his old brilliant way — books, society, 
authors, painting, music, and poetry being the 
themes. Lucia was amused and interested, for 
he could charm when it pleased him; but deep 
in her heart his infidel hints lay coiled like an 
adder ready to sting, and he became invested 
with a terrible interest which she could scarcely 
define. He, gave her no opportunity to allude 
to the subject again, but grew more and more 
silent until, one day, his uncle noticed his mood 
and rallied him on it at the dinner table, assert- 
ing his belief that he had left his heart at 
“ Mary ball. ” The arrow hit the mark; but no 
one knew it, and Frank Yellott, his color 
scarcely heightened, laughed it off with polished 
sarcasm and scorn, which tho’ veiled under 
sallies of wit, were sharp and bitter. But no 
one thought of analyzing it; they were glad to 
see him exhilarated and like his old self, little 
thinking that the evening before he left “ Mary- 
hall ” he had offered himself to Miss Caton, and 
been rejected by her in cold and positive terms, 
leaving him nothing to do but return to “Hay- 
lands ’ ’ and carry out his scheme about Lucia, 
which he was doing slowly, subtly and skilfully, 
by cautious and sinuous approaches which she 
never suspected or imagined. 

fie frequently joined her on her way to the 
industrial scIioqI, in which she became daily 


294 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


more and more interested, and listened with 
patient attention to all her talk and hopes con- 
cerning it; and she usually found him loitering, 
book in hand, waiting to walk home with her 
when her morning routine of duties was com- 
pleted and she was ready, with light heart and 
something of the glad elation of a conqueror, to 
go back to her music if no visitors awaited her, 
or attend to her social obligations in case they 
drd, in her own sweet attractive way, which had 
made “Haylands” the most charming house in 
the neighborhood to those who frequented it. 

Lucia had become accustomed to Frank Yel- 
lott’s presence, and presently began to miss it if 
by chance he happened to be away; for, inde- 
pendent of the interest she felt in his welfare, 
Lucia had one of those natures which delight in 
sympathetic companionship; and since he had 
grown so quiet and often sad, as if preoccupied 
with subjects of grave import, she found herself 
thinking frequently of him, and wishing that she 
knew how to help and comfort him. 

Allan Brooke was very much occupied about 
this time; his pplitical friends had brought 
him out for the Governorship of Virginia, and 
as there was little or no opposition, his nomina- 
tion was confirmed by popular consent, and 
there seemed to be no doubt of the certainty of 
his election. 

“I’m getting too old and lazy to care much 
about official honors now,” he laughed and told 
Lucia, and two or three intimate friends who 
were spending the day at “Haylands;” “but the 
will of the people leaves me no choice, and I’ll 
buckle on my harness again if I die in it. I 
shall have to appoint Lucia Lieutenant-Gov- 


ZOIv’S DAUGHTER. 295 

ernor if I’m elected, which will relieve me of 
many cares of State.” 

Much merry talk followed, which every one 
enjoyed except Mauin Chloe, who was in and 
out seeing that the dessert and fruits were set in 
their proper places on the table, for she was 
drilling some of Lucia’s proteges for future use, 
when the older servants, many of them well ad- 
vanced in years, should be obliged to retire from 
active duty; she listened and shook her head, 
and in the solitude of the pantry, stood with her 
face to the wall and wept at the thought of 
“ Haylands” being shut up and deserted again. 

“An’ as to his bein’ well, I knows better; no- 
body watches of him as I does — and t’other day 
when he cotch hold of my arm when he was 
coinin’ in de do’, his lian’ was parchin’ hot. He’s 
jest foolin’ with himself, that chile is” — But 
here she bethought herself of the coffee, and 
bustled out with the silver urn to the kitchen to 
have it poured off. 

That evening she found the master alone when 
she peeped into the library. He. looked up and 
with a pleasant smile bade her come in, and 
made her sit down. He laid down his pen say- 
ing : 

“I was just thinking of you, Maurnmy. ” 

“And I thinks of you all the time, Mars’ 
Allan; I’m ’feared you isn’t quite well.” 

“Well? I was never better in my life. I’m 
getting old, and don’t think I could stand a 
’possum-hunt or a fox-chase; but really I am in 
most excellent health,” he said, getting up and 
stretching himself, after which he began to walk 
slowly up and down. 

Much talk followed between the two about 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 


296 

family affairs — about the industrial school and 
household matters — and the Master told her what 
changes he wished made if he should leave and 
go to Richmond to live, giving her absolute 
authority in the absence of himself and Lucia. 
After these subjects were exhausted, like a post- 
script to a letter, Maum Chloe came to the pith 
of her business, which she made known with a 
shame-facedness and embarrassment that was 
almost childlike. 

“Mars’ Allan, thar’s somethin’ I wants to ask 
you, sah, and I hopes you won’t think I’m 
for’ard; but I hears so much talk about the fam- 
ily goin’, goin’, till I gets heartsick, and thar 
comes a great heavy weight down on me, and 
things git dark. I don’t know what’s coinin’, 
but its somethin’ ; I feels it in my bones and 
hears it in de winds and in de russlin’ of de 
leaves” — 

Here Maum Chloe burst into tears; but the 
master was accustomed to the emotional nature 
of her race — to its superstitions, and the rude 
eloquence in which they clothed their thoughts 
when excited; and standing by her side he laid 
his hand kindly on her shoulder. 

“I’m sorry to see you so troubled, my faithful 
old Maumrny; you must ask our Lord and His 
holy Mother to help you. Don’t you know that 
the divine providence of God is always round 
about us — that He who numbers the very hairs 
upon our heads, and notices the fall of the 
smallest sparrow, will have a Father’s care over 
us, and protect and comfort us when all else 
shall fail us? Look up then, and be glad, know- 
ing that you have so powerful a Father and 
Friend, who careth for you and will bring you 
out of trouble. ’ ’ 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


297 


“Oil, my cliile, my chile!” she sobbed, grasp- 
ing his hand, and covering it with tears and 
kisses; “mv chile, that I missed at my breast, 
and loves like my own flesh an’ blood, the 
trouble seems to be ’long of you — if it was me it 
was coinin’ to, I’d lift up my hands rejoicin’, for 
I’m very ole, and gets tired — so tired and 
a-weary that it rests me to think of dyin’ ; but, 
you — you, my chile — I can’t stan’ it — I can’t 
stan’ it!” 

“Come now, Maummy,” said the Master, his 
great tender heart deeply touched by the grief 
% of the faithful slave— a grief which however 
little reason she might have for it, made her un- 
happy, and was as real to her as some tangible 
thing; “you must place your trust in God. You 
are a Christian, and not like poor old Oolah, a 
believer in Obi and witches. Come, then, 
shake off this dread; why, don’t you know it is 
tempting Providence ! And then, too, you really 
make me unhappy to see you in such a state. I 
shall begin to think maybe there’s a sword 
hanging over my head that may drop at any 
instant. Come now, cheer up, and tell me one 
thing: would you like to go to Richmond with 
us?” 

“Go to Richmond ’mongst all dem stuck- 
up sarcy niggers, Mars’ Allan? No sah!” said 
Mauin Chloe, reviving at the very thought, and 
straightening herself up: “What’d become of 
‘Haylands’ if I was to go? No, Mars Allan, I 
never ’spects to leave ‘Haylands;’ I ’spects to 
live here and lay my bones here, God willin’.” 

“ So you shall. See here what I was doing for 
you when you came in ” said the master holding 
up a folded paper. “ Here are your free papers, 


zoe’s daughter. 


298 

and a deed which will secure your cottage and 
ground to you as long as you live. Some acci- 
dent might happen, and I thought it best to 
arrange all this before I leave home, in case I 
should be elected.” 

“ You just keep ’em, Mars’ Allan,” said Maum 
Chloe, her voice tremulous, and her dark face 
the color of ashes. “ I ben free enuff all my 
life; thar’s no occasion for papers; they sort of 
sep’ rates us, Mars’ Allan, and casts me adrift 
like — keep ’em for me, honey, and God bless 
you for thinkin’ of me; I’m just as thankful as 
if I should want to use ’em.” 

“Very well, I’ll take the best care of them, 
they may do you good service some day. Now 
tell me if there’s anything I can do for you. Is 
there anything you want — anything I can do for 
you?” said the master, kindly. 

“ I’ll tell you Mars’ Allan, thar’s somethin’ 
I’d like, but maybe I hasn’t got the right to ask 
for it,” said Maum Chloe. “You know, honey, 
de old Bible — it’s failin’ to pieces a’ most, and I 
thought ef you didn’t keer, I’d like to keep it 
in my chist, and look at the pictures now and 
then while you was all away from ‘ Haylands.’ ” 

“Take it and welcome; I have a smaller one, 
and never open that. I am glad to leave it in 
your care,” said the master, while at the same 
moment the thought came into his mind that he 
would slip the free papers and the deed between 
the pages of the old Bible, before she took it 
away. 

“ Thank’ ee, Mars’ Allan, thank’ ee; I’d ruther 
have it than the biggest plantation in Vir- 
ginny,” answered Maum Chloe, rising to go. 
“I’ll take it along to-morrow; and I’ll try to get 
over all these bad feelin’s, ef I kin — ef I kin.” 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


299 


“That’s right, that’s right; don’t you know 
you might bring me bad luck having such dis- 
mal thoughts about me? There’s nothing 
dearer to 0°d than a cheerful, trusting, simple 
heart. Now hunt up Miss Lucia, and ask them 
all to come into the music-room — my nephew, 
too. ’ ’ 

“I wonder if I am as well as I think I am?” 
said Allan Brooke, walking up and down. “I 
declare I’m afraid Maurn Chloe’s presentiments 
have left a shadowy impression; but I’m well — 
how nonsensical — I am perfectly well. I get a 
little dizzy sometimes, and have a numb, heavy 
feeling in my arm, all the result of indigestion, 
no doubt. Pshaw! I won’t think of such things, 
I hate hypochondria. I’d as lieve have hys- 
terics, a thing I stand in wholesome horror of. 

He laughed a little low quiet laugh, and went 
to the music room where Lucia, Frank Yellott 
and their guests soon joined him, and the even- 
ing passed away filled with music, mirth and 
interludes of conversation sparkling with wit and 
intelligence — for wherever Lucia was she had the 
happy art of bringing out all that was best in 
people, and infusing her own light-hearted, in- 
nocent gayety into them, without effort or offici- 
ousness. 

A day came when there were no guests at 
“Haylands;” an easterly wind was blowing in 
from the Bay; floods of rain were lashing the 
window panes and beating down the flowers into 
the dust, tearing away heavy boughs from the 
trees, and giving the outside world around “Hay- 
lands” the most dismal aspect imaginable. 

These easterly winds, even in summer, bring 
a penetrating chill with them. But now it was 


3 °° 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


September and there was a keener coldness in 
the storm, which made fires through the house 
necessary. Great logs blazed merrily on the 
broad marble, brass-ornamented hearths of the 
drawing-room, dining-room and music-room, the 
bright dancing light of the fire kindling up a 
ruddy cheerfulness in every nook and corner, and 
filling the pictured walls with grotesque dancing 
shadows. Lucia was house-bound, and her dusky 
pupils enjoyed a holiday. 

Frank Yellott was very grave and silent, and 
looked unhappy. Sometimes he would break 
out in fitful bursts of gayety; but to Lucia, who 
had got into a habit of observing his moods 
closely, it was apparent that his mirth was not 
from his heart — that it was all feverish and hol- 
low — and she pitied him in the depths of her 
pure womanly heart. 

Two, three days of storm. It seemed strange 
to think that the sun had ever shone or nature 
smiled beneath a blue sky; the clouds, low-hang- 
ing and dark, scudded along in wild processions 
of grotesque shapes; the wind, ever sighing, 
sobbing or rising in fierce gusts, filled the air 
with sounds of distress, and dashed the rain in 
sheeted cascades against the windows. Music, 
cheerful conversation and pleasant voices may be 
efficacious for a short time to chase away the 
gloom of such weather as this, but should it 
continue for days together, it is almost past 
human nature, not to yield somewhat at least to 
its influences. On the third day Allan Brooke 
retired from the family circle to the library, 
saying he had papers of importance to look over. 
Frank Yellott read to Lucia awhile, then closed 
the book and stood at the window looking out at 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


3 QI 


the gloomy prospect, grinding his teeth and 
almost suffocated with the bitter curses that 
filled his heart, and were only kept down by the 
force of a will which was putting a terrible re- 
straint upon him, while he risked his all as on 
the toss of a card. Evening was creeping on 
apace: gray shadows already veiled the far cor- 
ners of the drawing-room; the fire had burnt 
low; there was only a heap of fantastic, glowing 
coals upon the hearth, which now and then 
emitted a flash and sent a train of sparks up the 
black chimney. Eucia loved this gray light, and 
the fitful flashes from the coals had a wierd 
fascination for her, and leaning back upon the 
sofa cushions her thoughts drifted far back into 
the sad memories of the past, until she forgot her 
surroundings, the present and herself, and was 
once more a desolate child crying beside her 
dead mother. She was roused from her m usings 
by hearing her name pronounced; she started 
and found Frank Yellott sitting beside her, with 
such a look of gloom and sorrow in his face that 
she involuntarily exclaimed: “What is it trou- 
bles you ? tell me, and let me try to help you if I 
can.” 

Then in an agitated tone of voice he began to 
talk of himself; he seemed to speak, for the first 
time, unreservedly and sincerely; he told her of 
his early errors, of his misspent time, his tempta- 
tions and the influences which had ever ruled 
his life, with such bitterness and pathos com- 
bined that her heart was touched with compas- 
sion — an irresistible yearning to help him and 
lift him from the slough of despair in which he 
was struggling. He bowed his face in his hands 
when he had no more to tell, and she heard him 
utter a deep sigh. 


302 


Z0£’S DAUGHTER. 


‘‘Have courage, my friend,” she said, laying 
her hand on his shoulder. 

“Have courage!” he repeated, vehemently. 
“My courage is gone! I am drifting helplessly 
to destruction! I have no one to help — no one 
to save me.” 

“I will help you, Frank, if you will tell me 
how,” she said. Her soul moved with a great 
and noble sentiment of compassion toward him. 

“There is but one way, Lucia: be my guide 
for life; unite your fate with mine. Save me, 
Lucia! save me!” he exclaimed wildly, as he 
held out his hands, like a drowning man, toward 
her. 

It was all so sudden, Lucia lost her breath and 
could not speak. 

“Promise me now, Lucia,” he continued; “if 
you reject me I shall become reckless, the only 
tie that binds me to purity*and goodness will be 
snapped asunder, and my soul, yes, my soul, 
will hold you answerable for its destruction. 
Pity me, Lucia!” 

“I do pity you, Frank, from my soul, but I do 
not love you.” 

“But, give me hope — -just one word of hope!” 
he plead. 

“Hope then,” she said, with a noble impulse 
of sacrifice — with an elevating hope that she 
might truly be the means of saving this gifted, 
wayward soul. He would have grasped her 
hands, but she arose and almost fled from him 
to the solitude and stillness of her own room. 
She reached it, went in and closed the door, 
feeling as if in a dream, and walked involun- 
tarily toward her oratory, dedicated to the 
“Mother of Sorrows,” where she stood, her 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 303 

hands clasped before her and a sensation pervad- 
ing her being as if she were turning to stone. 
The last faint flicker of departing day threw a 
shadowy light over the marble image of the 
Sorrowful Mother, and it appeared to stand out 
from the surrounding gloom as if floating in air, 
the gracious arms held out as if inviting weary 
souls to the shelter of her own wounded bosom. 

“What have I done? Oh God, what shall I 
do?” 

] Well might she ask, for a promise once given 
By Lucia was irrevocable, and she would at any 
time rather have forfeited her life than be false 
to her word. This was one of the governing 
principles of her being. “It was a rash thing, 
but then, but then — O, my blessed Mother, if I 
can but save his soul, if I can but bring to my 
benefactor such happiness as this will afford 
him — my benefactor to whom I owe so much — 
can I be wrong? I feel like one blind in a 
tangled wilderness. Help me, help me!” wailed 
Lucia, sinking upon the floor, her head droop- 
ing low upon her breast. 

But no response came: the calm, fair image 
looked down upon her, silent and dumb, 110 
word of help came out of the hushed stillness; 
but her cry was not unheard by her who sits 
near the throne of her divine Son, the Queen of 
the spotless array of Virgins who follow the 
Lamb whithersoever He goeth. After a season, 
and by ways she dreamed not of then, Lucia’s 
prayer for help was answered. Deliverance 
came, and she was saved as by fire. 

Frank Yellott did not presume on the hope 
Lucia had held out; he was too wary, for he 
had not yet snared his bird, and felt the necessity 


3°4 


ZOK’S DAUGHTER. 


of preserving the most delicate caution. When 
Lucia joined them at the tea-table that night, 
there was nothing different in his manner toward 
her, except a more gentle deference; there were 
no airs of assumption, none of the freedom of an 
accepted suitor, not a single word or look that 
indicated on his part a right of proprietorship, 
for which Lucia thanked him in her heart, and 
gradually felt more at ease. 


305 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER V. 

“tike a bird in the snare of the 
FOWEER. ’ ’ 

By the assistance of his keen perception of 
character, Frank Yellott had studied Lucia 
thoroughly, and felt convinced that he could 
never win her in the ordinary way; hence his 
role of repentance; his frank admission of past 
errors, his well-acted despondency, his seeming 
despair; all of which he well knew would appeal 
to the noblest and best qualities of her nature, 
throwing him, as they did, entirely upon her 
womanly sympathies and Christian charity. And 
now, having won, or rather surprised her into 
giving him permission to hope, he had too much 
tact to urge his claims; he rather sought to win 
her confidence and favor by a course of conduct 
and conversation which tended to confirm the 
favorable impression he had made, and not only 
strengthened her desire to help him, but deep- 
ened the interest he had so artfully excited. But 
in all this there was nothing of love on Lucia’s 
part — nothing of that higher sentiment which 
impels one being to seek happiness in assimilat- 
ing thought, companionship and life itself with 
that of another; there was only a great pity for 
the soul gone astray, and a noble desire to save 
it at every cost. 

There was one thing she conceded after a little 
while: she allowed him to speak to her guardian 


zoe’s daughter. 


3°6 

on the subject, and tell him how matters stood 
between them; but even in this he was guilty of 
duplicity, for he so varnished the facts as to lead 
Allan Brooke to suppose that he and Lucia were 
positively engaged, instead of his being simply 
on probation, and a not too confident aspirant 
for her hand. 

There is no sort of lying so dangerous as that 
through which runs a thread of truth to give it 
plausibility, none so difficult to disprove, none 
so damaging in its effects; nor is there any phase 
of duplicity so apt to deceive, and, therefore, so 
evil in its results, as that which is veiled here 
and there by a bluff sincerity. It is a cunning 
artifice worthy of the prince of lies, so to mingle 
truth with falsehood and to seal the latter with 
a genuine stamp of authenticity, which some- 
times ruins the innocent and brings dishonor, 
poverty and despair on the guiltless and deserv- 
ing. 

At first Allan Brooke was glad at heart when 
he learned how matters stood, and felt thankful 
that Providence had adjusted this matter in a 
way which left him nothing to wish for in re- 
gard to the future of these two young people so 
near and dear to him. But on thinking the 
matter over, he began to grow uneasy, and the 
more he turned it over in his mind, the more 
uneasy he grew; for the idea crept into his 
thoughts that possibly Lucia, taking a hint from 
their conversation the^day they wejit together to 
“Buckrae,” had, actuated by a sense of affection 
and gratitude towards himself, accepted his 
nephew. This was unbearable to him; he 
would not have her sacrifice hefself to any such 
overstrained romantic sentimentality as that; he 

V 


ZOK’S DAUGHTER. 307 

would question her closely, and find out for him- 
self how it was. It was not long before an op- 
portunity offered for his purpose, and he had a 
conversation with her which quite satisfied him 
at the time that Lucia was acting in this matter 
entirely independent of a desire to please him, 
although she admitted that the thought of his 
approval was a great happiness to her. 

“Iam — I will admit now, my darling,” he 
said with a sigh of relief, as he stooped over and 
kissed her head, as she sat at his feet, “ that I 
am much pleased; there is nothing could have 
made me happier, humanly speaking; but oh ! 
my child, be careful ! — be careful, my little girl ! 
Be sure you count the cost, look the matter 
squarely in the face, and if you come to believe 
you will not be happy in such a marriage, break 
it off at all hazards — aye ! at the very altar ! ’ 5 

“I should not hesitate to do so, Guardy, if 
there were sufficient occasion, but I apprehend 
no such difficulties; Frank has a noble, generous 
nature, and the hope of keeping him in an up- 
ward and onward career of goodness and honor, 
is a motive full of happiness,” she said, looking 
with sweet confidence into his eyes. 

“ And how soon shall I probably lose you, my 
child?” he asked, smoothing her hair with gen- 
tle touches. 

“Oh! I have no idea; I do not think of that 
yet, Guardy. I must grow better acquainted 
with Frapk; it seems distrustful, but he must 
stand the test of waiting. I must be fully as- 
sured of his stability of purpose; and he will, if 
he thinks me worth winning, be patient.” 

“Don’t expect too much, my child; men grow 
very restive, and sometimes desperate, if the bit 
is drawn too hard on them. ’ ’ 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


3°8 

“Yes, I know,” she said, with a little sigh; 
“but I too must not be urged. Frank has ac- 
cepted the situation, and must abide by it.” 

“I have nothing to say, my child, except to 
wish you all happiness, and place you under the 
special care of our Blessed Lady and St. Joseph,” 
he replied, with a strange misgiving in his heart. 
“There is one thing which must be settled, 
however, in time; you must have an establish- 
ment of your own when married. I won’t have 
you living with my sister, or her with you ; and 
he must promise me, moreover, to spend half 
the year as long as he lives at ‘Haylands’ to see 
after things and keep the old place up.” 

“Time enough, darling, to think of that,” said 
Lucia, caressing his hand. “As to the other, 
you are right — I must have a house that shall be 
entirely my own, and free from all outside in- 
fluences. ’ ’ 

Touching the spring of her watch, Lucia saw 
that she was an hour behind time, and rose to go 
to the school-house, where she knew her not en- 
tirely trained pupils, who had not yet recovered 
from the unlimited holiday afforded them by the 
four days’ storm, must be awaiting her presence. 

“It is very sweet to be here, Guardy; but I 
must go, or my absence will be made the excuse 
for all sorts of idle pranks down there. Good 
bye,” she said, as she left him. 

Not yet feeling at ease, Allan Brooke got into 
his yacht, and sailed down to St. Inigoes to talk 
over his perplexities with Father Jannison, 
whom he found just returned from a distant sick 
call, tired enough and well disposed to lean back 
in his great arm-chair to rest, and listen to what- 
ever his friend might have to say. He heard of 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


309 

Lucia’s engagement with great interest and 
something of surprise. 

“It seems to me,” lie said, after refreshing 
himself with a pinch of snuff, “it seems to me 
that it’s a very good thing.” 

But not so did it seem to Allan Brooke; it 
struck him that Lucia was altogether too cool 
and self-reliant, and looked on marriage in too 
business-like a way, to ensure her happiness in 
a union with a man so distinctly her opposite in 
liis^ characteristics and temperament as his 
nephew, who would require all womanly tender- 
ness and unselfish affection, as well as a dutiful 
routine, in exchange for the devotion he avowed 
for her. He explained his misgivings to Father 
Jannison, who took another pinch of snuff over 
them. 

“I think you are mistaken, Brooke,” he said, 
“Frank Yellott is a fine fellow; lie is talented, 
good-looking, in fact very handsome, and if I 
am not deceived, he aspires to be not only a 
good but a great man. I really don’t think it 
will be difficult for Lucia to be happy with 
him.” 

“I hope so! I hope so!” 

“I have had a great many long talks with 
Frank lately, and I am very much pleased with 
him,” Father Jannison continued. “He said 
nothing about his intentions towards Lucia; but 
he pleased me by his frankness in admitting the 
great dangers he had fallen into at one time from 
the infidel doctrines of the times; he told me 
these profane studies had caused him to fall into 
great disorders of life, and to almost abandon his 
faith — his conscience was stifled and silenced 
until, meeting with Lucia, and seeing the 


3 IQ 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


beauty of religion in her daily life, he felt in- 
spired with a strong desire to retrace his steps 
and make amends for his errors and infidelity. 

I do think Frank Yellott well worth the trouble 
of saving, even at some cost, and now is the 
critical time. Besides, Lucia hasn’t a bit of 
that nonsensical sentimentality about her, which 
would make her miserable in the performance 
of so sublime a duty. Frank is on a precipice, 
and if he is not helped, he will fall.” 

“I never suspected my nephew of bad 
habits,” said Allan Brooke, astonished and 
confused; “I thought him strictly moral.” 

“It’s not that. That is not the trouble, by any 
means. The danger is that he may become an 
infidel and lose his soul. He has been terribly 
beset and tempted; what with the wild anarchical . 
ideas of liberty promulgated by French Jacobins, 
who hold that religion is incompatible with 
freedom and unworthy the true dignity of man, 
and the revived doctrine of Giordano Bruno, and 
that- Dutch Jew Baruch Spinoza, Fichte, and 
the other locusts from the bottomless pit that 
come up and devour the green plants of God’s 
vineyard, Frank was nearly done for. Just 
think of a soul struggling among the waves of 
materialism, pantheism and infidelity; the 
wonder is that he did not sink long ago.” 

“Good God!” exclaimed Allan Brooke, lift- 
ing both hands; “I had no idea of this. How 
providential his coming here when he did; how 
every way providential his meeting Lucia!” 

“Yes, let us thank God for His mercies. His ' 
ways are not as our ways, and His loving strata- 
gems to save His children are sometimes won- 
derful to behold. I look upon this marriage as 
altogether a most excellent thing.” 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


3 “ 

“I am heartily glad I came over, Father Jan- 
nison; you have really consoled me, and in a 
way made me happy. I had no idea that the 
poor boy had been in such peril; but it’s all right 
now, thank God,” said Allan Brooke, rising to 
g°. 

“Or soon will be. Frank is preparing him- 
self for a general confession, and wishes truly, I 
believe, to make amends for his wasted opportu- 
nities; but he requires time. He will come out 
all right, never doubt that,” said Father Janni- 
son, taking a pinch of snuff on it, while his 
countenance beamed with peace and good will to 
all the world. 

And Father Jannison had firm faith in what 
he said, while Allan Brooke, in the simple trust- 
fulness of his heart, believed all that he told 
him. Nevertheless, after he went away, a vague 
uneasiness about Lucia took possession of him 
once more; he thought the outlook for her 
future was far from being a hopeful one; for, 
while he had high ideas of duty, self-sacrifice 
and other ennobling traits, he could not rid 
himself of the idea that a marriage without affec- 
tion, and with no other motive than duty, was 
one of the greatest mistakes in life. But a doubt 
of his nephew’s perfect integrity, his sincere 
repentance, and his devotion to Lucia, never 
once entered his mind; as far as he was con- 
cerned, he thought all was well — his fears and 
forebodings were for Lucia, and her alone. 

Frank Yellott thus succeeded in deceiving 
them all, Lucia, Allan Brooke and Father Jan- 
nison. They thought of him as the prodigal 
son drawing near his father’s house, and they 
sought to make the path straight for his feet: he 


312 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


must not be driven to the famine and desolation 
of that u far country,” whence he had just come, 
by cold looks and reproachful words; they would 
keep and hold him by making a banquet for 
him, clothing him in new garments, and killing 
the fatted calf to celebrate his return, and show 
how dearly welcome he was. 

Credulity is one of the traits of the good, and 
in some cases it is difficult to determine whether 
it is a weakness or a virtue; but on the whole it 
is probably better to be deceived a thousand 
times than to suspect one deserving and just per- 
son wrongfully. The intention is all that is 
weighed by the eternal justice of God, Who 
separates the dross of the deed from the gold of 
your will, and adds to it the sum of your merits. 

Frank Yellott deceived them every one, except 
Maum Chloe, who had ways and opportunities 
of seeing beneath the surface, and who distrusted 
and disliked him more and more every day. 

And he laughed in his sleeve at them all, 
planning in his mind what he would do when he 
became master of “Haylands.” First of all, he 
would break up that sentimental nonsense of 
Lucia’s, which kept her half her time among a 
parcel of ignorant slaves; he would sell off a 
number of the negroes — there were more than 
were needed — and he’d have altogether a new 
order of things, in place of the hum-drum 
routine now prevailing. He would have his 
blooded race-horses, a cock-pit, and another pack 
of hounds, and if Lucia did not like it, it would 
make no difference; but if she grew exacting, 
and undertook to govern things according to her 
straight-laced ideas, he would set up a separate 
establishment, where, surrounded by his boon 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


313 

companions, he could give rein without restraint 
to his evil passions. 

It is not pleasant to write of such a character 
as Frank Yellott’s, but the fadts of our narrative 
compel us to develop his bad qualities, if for no 
other purpose than to show the dangerous influ- 
ence of “to seem and not to be,” and into what 
abysses men fall who go into the way of tempta- 
tion and abandon the practice of their faith. 

No Christian in his daily warfare ever kept a 
closer watch upon himself, nor imposed a more 
constant restraint upon his undisciplined passions, 
than did this man while in pursuit of his wicked 
and selfish plans. Once and once only he came 
near betraying himself, and ruining all. He 
came to Lucia one morning in great spirits, and 
begged that she would drive with him — he was 
going to try a pair of young horses his uncle had 
given him, the new harness had just come from 
Baltimore, and he wished her to see how splen- 
didly they would go, and be the first to drive 
with them. Lucia had no fear of horses, and 
willingly assented. 

“ Are you sure of those nags, Frank?” asked 
his uncle, looking up from ,a letter he was read- 
ing. 

“Perfectly so, sir; they are as gentle as 
lambs. ’ ’ 

“Perhaps so; but it is not long since they 
were broken to the harness — you must be care- 
ful.” 

“Lucia will be with me, sir,” he answered 
quietly. 

“True, true,” said Allan Brooke, understand- 
ing at once the significance of his brief answer; 
“but don’t forget and .make them feel the bit 
too hard — young horses are skittish things.” 


314 ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 

“I’ll be careful sir; they are splendid animals, 
and I want Lucia to see their paces. We shall 
have a charming afternoon; be ready at four, 
Lncia. ’ ’ 

Then the two men separated, Allan Brooke to 
drive across the country to see a sick friend, 
and Frank Yellott to the stables to give orders 
about the horses, the open carriage, check reins, 
and other matters; then he mounted and rode 
off to meet young Ogle and some other boon 
companions at the tavern a mile or two away. 

Lucia, in high spirits that day, felt one of 
those causeless elations that sometimes come 
flowing over the soul like a sunlit flood-tide 
which drives back by its brightness all thoughts 
of the inevitable ebb that follows, and the mind 
is only busy collecting the flotsam and jetsam 
that it brings around it, without a thought 
of the wreck from which they have floated. 
The atmosphere was crisp and clear, the light 
came through the autumn foliage in all the rich 
tints of stained glass in old cathedral win- 
dows; there was a bitter-sweet fragrance abroad, 
mingling with the incense-like aroma of the 
firs and cedars; while now and then the clear 
loud whistle of partridges foraging through the 
stubble, shrilled sweetly on the air. "With- 
out all was beautiful; within Lucia saw with 
thankful heart, success crowning her efforts at 
last. In place of a crowd* of undisciplined, half- 
naked young savages, ignorant and without an 
idea of moral obligations, there was now an 
orderly array of clean, comfortably dressed chil- 
dren, who plied their tasks industriously and 
cheerfully, and who, best of all, were learning 
by slow degrees the end and aim of their crea- 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 315 

tion. She was very happy in the contemplation 
of the good fruits her works had borne; she was 
happy in the very sense of living that day, and 
there seemed not the shadow of a cloud in all 
the expanse of her sky. 

She stood waiting on the veranda that after- 
noon, ready to drive; and when Frank Yellott 
dashed up to the door in the elegant turnout, 
the fine spirited horses as sleek as satin, arching 
their necks and pawing the gravel with dainty 
grace, as they obeyed the reins which he held in 
a masterful grasp, Lucia thought she had never 
seen a fairer sight, a more perfect human figure. 
With his help she sprang lightly into the high 
seat beside him. Like all Virginia-bred women 
she loved horses, and did not feel the slighest 
emotion of fear, as she watched, with admiring 
eyes, the graceful action of these splendid 
creatures, whose motion was faultless as they 
swept down the broad avenue and out into the 
high-road like the wind. Frank Yellott touched 
them on the flanks with his whip, and laying 
back their ears they almost flew. 

“Don’t do that, Frank; they do not need it,” 
said Lucia. 

“Oh, yes they do! they must get accustomed 
to it; there’s nothing like beginning right, you 
know,” he answered, almost rudely, as he flicked 
the whip around their ears, which caused them 
to plunge and rear for a moment, then go on 
with renewed speed. 

There seemed to be — Lucia noticed it now — a 
dullness in Frank’s eyes, a thickness in his 
speech, and his reckless driving terrified her 
with a dread of she knew not what. Turning a 
sudden curve in the road, he swayed on his seat 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


3 j 6 

and almost fell. Had he lurched on the oppo- 
site side he would have gone under the wheels; 
but he fell against Lucia, almost throwing her 
into the road. 

“Frank, are you ill?” she exclaimed, grasp- 
ing his arm. 

“No — ill? — no — but, fact is — I’m dizzy,” he 
stammered. 

“Give me the reins,” she said, trying to take 
them. 

“No, no; none of that nonsense. I can 
manage them — gentle as lambs, but hard in the 
mouth, and would break your fingers,” he said, 
interlacing his reply with profane expressions, 
that would be out of place here. “Now, then!” 
he shouted, giving the mettlesome animals a 
cut about their ears. It was once too often. 
Half maddened, they started on a wild run across 
an open field toward some abandoned gypsum 
pits, which lay right across their course. With- 
out a word Lucia seized the reins, and nerved to 
almost preternatural strength, she stood holding 
in the horses with a firm hand while she whis- 
pered a Hail Mary with her white lips; for there, 
a short distance ahead, almost certain destruction 
awaited them. But the fiery horses had ex- 
pended their fury in their race across the field’s 
deep furrows; and feeling her masterful hold on 
the reins, they slackened their pace, then halted, 
quivering in every limb, their black coats be- 
dabbled with foam, just a few feet from the 
jagged edge of the quarry. 

Frank Yellott was sobered when he saw the 
range of deep pits yawning before them, and 
realized the destruction they had so wonderlully 
escaped. He thought he was ruined, and almost 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


317 


wished they had gone crashing down into them; 
better that than to live to see all his fine castles 
in the air crumble to hopeless wreck before him; 
but his ready wit saved him even now. He 
sprang out, stood at the horses’ heads, smoothing 
down their dripping necks, then led them care- 
fully away from the dangerous spot. 

“Don’t be alarmed, Lucia,” he said; “the 
danger is over, I think. ’ 9 

“lam not alarmed,” she answered coldly. 
She was very pale, and felt her left arm was 
sprained. 

“Forgive me, Lucia,” he .said, presently; “I 
am subject to attacks of vertigo. I felt ill before 
starting; but fearing to disappoint you, I drank 
a small glass of brandy and water, hoping to be 
relieved; but so far from relieving me, it made 
me worse. My head is splitting. I believe I 
have got malaria in my blood; I am not used to 
your climate, you know.” 

“You were very foolish to come, Frank, 
under such circumstances; we had a narrow 
escape,” she answered more gently, thinking it 
might all be so, when she noticed his pallor, 
and the two dull red spots upon his cheek bones. 
“Let us go home and have you attended to.” 

She said nothing of her own hurt, which made 
her almost faint, now and then. 

“You’re a brave girl, Lucia, and you handle 
the reins splendidly; but had you not better 
let me drive back to 4 Hay lands ? ” ’ he asked 
humbly. 

4 4 Oh yes ! of course; but don’t touch the 
horses again with the whip; and don’t hold the 
reins so tight,” she replied quietly, while she 
grew livid with pain. 


ZOfe’S DAUGHTER. 


318 

As they returned home slowly and quietly 
enough, a fresh breeze was blowing from the 
Bay into their faces, which somewhat revived 
her, and perfectly sobered Frank by the time 
they arrived at “Haylands.” 

Lifting Lucia down, for she was nearly faint- 
ing with pain, he led her in, sent for Maum 
Chloe, and excused himself, going immediately 
to his room. Soon after a message came down 
that he felt quite ill, and a messenger was dis- 
patched for the doctor. 

Maum Chloe saw that Lucia ascended the 
staircase feebly; she saw also that she was as 
white as marble, and that two dark rings encir- 
cled her eyes; and she needed no telling to know 
that she was either hurt, or sick almost to death. 

“What is the matter, honey?” she asked 
tenderly, her arm around Lucia’s waist holding 
her up. 

“I believe I have sprained my arm, Maum- 
my; go get me some brown paper and vinegar, but 
don’t say one word to Guardy, for it is nothing 
much,” answered Lucia, her lips quivering with 
pain. 

“Was you upsot, honey? tell me that before 
I go.” 

“No, indeed! I attempted to drive, that’s 
all: go now.” 

“No ’tain’t all nuther,” muttered Maum 
Chloe wrathfully, as she went down stairs to 
the store-room. “That snake-in-the-grass was 
drunk; he got drunk guzzling with them wild 
young fellows down tliar at the tavern. Bligh 
told me about the high jinks they had, and now 
he’s gone and ’most broke her neck. But she 
won’t let me say a word ’bout him: /could tell 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


3 J 9 


her things about him if she’d let me; but if she 
goes and marries him, she’ll rue it — to the day 
of her death, she’ll rue it. I’d ruther see you 
dead, my purty ! ” 

She got the things she was sent for and went 
up again, wisely holding her tongue. She felt 
Imcia’s arm gently, and, altho’ it was purple 
and swollen, she knew that no bones were 
broken, for her long experience on the plantation 
had given her a certain amount of chirurgical 
skill, and, bandaging it up deftly and smoothly, 
she brought up a cup of hot tea, and persuaded 
her to drink it and lie down. 


2,20 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER VI. 

DARKNESS AT NOON. 

Lucia got but little rest that night, the pain 
in her arm was so severe, and the brief intervals 
of comparative ease she had, when she might 
have slept, were so filled with a feverish horror 
of the peril she had escaped, that her nerves, 
entirely unstrung, nearly drove her wild. She 
thought of her rosary, and with a half sob and 
half moan, she drew it from beneath her pillow, 
and composing herself as well as she could, be- 
gan to think of the heavenly patience of Mary, 
whispering fervent Aves the while, until peace 
came like a balm to her spirit, enabling her 
to bear better the pain of her hurt. Towards 
morning, she fell into a refreshing slumber, 
from which she was awakened by a ray of sun- 
shine in her face, by which she knew it must be 
late. For some reasons, she was glad to have 
overslept herself; she hoped that Allan Brooke 
would have finished his breakfast, and gone on 
his daily tour of inspection over the plantation, 
which would enable her to conceal the painful 
result of her adventure from him. She hated so 
to give him a moment’s uneasiness; then too, she 
feared he would be displeased with Frank for 
having insisted on the drive, after being warned 
about the horses. She did not ring for her maid, 
but dressed herself, and putting her arm in a 
sling, threw a crimson shawl carelessly over her 


321 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 

shoulders, and went down to the breakfast room, 
where to her astonishment she saw her guardian 
sitting quietly by the fireside, poring over the 
Analectic Magazine, which had come by post 
the night before, having lost nothing of the 
flavor of its rich contents by its long voyage 
across the ocean. 

“Why, my darling!” he exclaimed, as she 
leaned over his shoulder to give him the usual 
good morning kiss; “I have been waiting for 
you.” 

“How you spoil me, Guardy ! I have been 
very lazy this morning; I hope you didn’t eat 
all of the breakfast up from me,” she answered 
cheerfully, as she went across the room to pull 
the bell cord. 

“There may be some fragments left — but bless 
my soul! what is the matter with you Lucia? 
What’s that you have around your neck? A 
sling? and your arm in it?” exclaimed Allan 
Brooke, throwing the magazine aside and start- 
ing up. He had been watching her, and saw 
the sling when she rang the bell, her shawl hav- 
ing slipped down. “And you areas pale as a 
Magnolia! Tell me, Lucia, are you ill?” 

“No, indeed, Guardy,” she answered, trying 
to look as if there was nothing the matter; “I 
am very well.” 

“ But what is your arm doing in a sling? “I 
never saw you with your arm in a sling before, 
and hardly suppose you wear it for ornament, 
my child.” 

“Well, Guardy,” she answered with a little 
laugh; “my arm got a little wrench or some- 
thing.” 

“Which makes you look like a ghost, with 


322 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


great blue rings under your eyes. Tell me, Lucia, 
bow you got that little wrench; I had my doubts 
about those horses yesterday, and I’m sure that 
you met with an accident,” he said gravely, and 
with the slightest approach to a frown. 

“Well, Guardy, if you must know, I took the 
reins from Frank and drove a short distance, and 
the horses were too much for my arm, that’s all, ” 
she said, determined to screen Frank as much as 
possible, for she had never a doubt of the truth- 
fulness of the story he told her about having 
vertigo, and the rest of it. Had she suspected 
how matters really stood, could the veil have 
been but for a moment lifted from the leprous 
face of the false being into whose keeping she 
expected to entrust her happiness, the tie would 
have been severed at once, and she would have 
fled from him in horror. But too pure herself 
to be suspicious when she once gave her trust, 
her only thought was now to screen him from 
blame, for she knew that her guardian, if he got 
at the facts of their adventure, would possibly 
say things to him about his reckless driving, and 
his having risked both their lives in the face of 
advice and warning, which might both wound 
and exasperate him, which would make it un- 
pleasant for them all. 

“Did the horses run away?” he asked gravely. 

“They were unmanageable for a little while, 
but came back as quietly as two old coach horses; 
I never saw a more splendid match — they go like 
the wind, and keep step beautifully — but look, 
Guardy, what a pile of letters,” said Lucia, glad, 
as the servant came in with the mail, of an op- 
portunity to elude the subject. 

“Well, the result is a sprained wrist for you, 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


323 


my child, and an attack of illness for Frank, who 
was too sick to leave his room this morning.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is he much sick?” 
asked Lucia, quite shocked. 

u Oh, no, no,” he answered quickly, ever fear- 
ing to give her pain; “it’s nothing serious; Dr. 
Bean bled him until he fainted, but he has no 
fever; the bleeding prostrated him — that’s all, 
I hope. But .where in the world did all these 
letters come from? I must see.” 

But Lucia, quicker than he, took up one with 
a broad red seal upon it — a large, important look- 
ing document — and with a bright light flashing 
in her eyes, and a proud, happy smile, read 
aloud: 

“To His Excellency, 

“Governor Brooke, 

“Hay lands, Virginia.” 

“There’s no mistake, Guardy^ — it’s all right. 
Here’s Sic semper tyrannis upon the seal, and 
nothing wanting; you are elected, and I must be 
the first to congratulate the new Governor of 
Virginia;” and going around to his chair, she 
leaned over and kissed his forehead. “But you 
don’t seem one bit glad!” 

“I’m ashamed to say I do feel a regret at the 
result; I’m getting to be a lazy old fellow,” he 
answered somewhat sadly. “The very thought 
of the excitement and cares of public life wearies 
me, and makes me feel like running off some- 
where to hide. I hate, now-a-days, even to go 
from one room to another. A pretty Governor 
I shall make.” 

“I’m glad there’s something come to rouse 
you, Governor Brooke; it don’t answer for fine 
Damascus blades to rust in their scabbards. Now 


3 2 4 


ZOIS’S DAUGHTER. 


let me drink your Excellency’s health in a cup 
of hot coffee,” said Lucia, gaily. 

“One moment, darling. Give me that pre- 
tentious looking document — I’ll see what they 
have to say,” he said, reaching out his hand for 
the letter, which he tore open and read. 

“Yes,” he said with an almost impreceptible 
look of worry in his countenance, “it is so. It 
is all very flattering and very kind; and they 
want me to come to Richmond as soon as con- 
venient, to consult with certain political leaders 
there. ’ ’ 

“But not to remain? ” 

“Oh, no; only for a few days at present. If 
Frank’s better, I’ll get him to go along too — 
that is, if it will be agreeable to him.” 

“That’s a charming plan; I’m sure he will 
enjoy it — and I shall feel easier about you, 
Guardy, if he is with you. Oh, Maum Chloe!” 
exclaimed Lucia, as the old woman came in with 
a plate of hot waffles in her hand, “let me in- 
troduce you to the Governor of Virginia. The 
election is over, and Guardy is now Governor 
Brooke. ’ ’ 

“That’s just as it ought to be; de Lord be 
praised, Mars’ Allan,” said the old woman, w T ith 
a proud smile, as she dropped a courtsey before 
him. “Blood and brains al’ays crops out. I 
knowd you wasn’t gwine to stagnate here at 
‘Hay lands;’ ’taint like our family no how — they 
has to be in the front ranks or in ther graves,” 
and, the proud old creature chuckled until she 
was obliged to hold on to the back of a chair. 

“Thank you, Mauminy, thank you,” said the 
master, laughing, as he shook her black wrinkled 
hand heartily and kindly, after which she went 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


325 

out, her face radiant with delight, to spread the 
news. 

Of course, a half-holiday was asked by the 
negroes, and enjoyed to their hearts’ content. 
Double rations of molasses and meal were given 
out to the heads of the various families; and at 
night they lighted bonfires in honor of the event 
which had brought a new accession of dignity to 
the family — each negro feeling an individual 
pride in it — and exhibited their delight by danc- 
ing to the wild music of fiddles, tambourines 
and banjoes until daylight. 

We record these customs to show that there 
were many gleams of brightness threading the 
dark system of human slavery, and that it was 
not altogether the gloomy and terrible thing 
which people who knew but little about the re- 
lations between master and slave in the old times 
represented. It was a curse — now washed out 
in blood — but in those days there were humane 
and Christian hearts throughout the beautiful 
south-land, which lightened the burden of slavery 
and made its yoke as ea$y to bear as laws, stat- 
utes and means allowed them. 

The news had quite a reviving effect upon 
Frank Yellott, who made his appearance down 
stairs the next day looking very pale, and Lucia, 
observing that he walked unsteadily as he came 
into the room, ran to meet him, taking his 
hand to lead him towards a large cushioned 
chair near the fire. 

“ You should not have left your room to-day, 
Frank. Let me get you a glass of wine and a 
biscuit,” she said, standing by him. 

“I could not stay in my room, Lucia. Re- 
member that the clouds grow heavy and dark 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


326 

about me, when separated from you; I seem only 
to liveJ'wHen in your presence,” he answered 
still holding her hand. 

“It is pleasant to think of being like sunshine 
to our friends,” she said, drawing her hand 
away in obedience to a sudden and inexplicable 
impulse of repulsion, which frightened her, then 
sorry for having done it, she asked him “ if he 
did not feel better.” 

‘ ( I shall feel better when I am assured of be- 
ing forgiven for my recklessness, Lucia— but 
what ails your hand?” he said suddenly. 

“Oh, nothing but a little sprain,” she answered 
cheerfully; “don’t be so curious about other 
people’s affairs.” 

“Yes, but this — this is my work,”fhe said tak- 
ing her swollen hand tenderly in his, and press- 
ing his lips upon it. “ Can you ever forgive 
me, Lucia?” 

“Of course I can forgive you Frank. What 
nonsense you are talking, after making yourself 
ill for fear of disappointing me about a drive !” 
answered Lucia, as she passed her hand gently 
over his hair, smoothing it away from his fore- 
head, the first, only and last approach to a caress 
she ever bestowed on him. 

“I know now what Maum Chloe meant last 
night. She gave me an awful blowing up about 
something dreadful that had happened through 
my fault, during that drive; and she had me so 
completely at her mercy, that I could neither 
make her tell me what she meant, nor stop her. ’ ’ 

Lucia laughed, saying; “You know Maum 
Chloe rules us all with a rod of iron, and we 
enjoy being hauled over the coals by her 
immensely. Do you know I heard her scolding 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


327 

Guardy like everything this morning, because he 
hadn’t put on his woolen socks.” 

“There’s no end of good sense in her meaning, 
when you can get at it; but we Northern-bred peo- 
ple aren’t used to such familiarities. We have a 
sort of idea that the negroes are a kind of animal, 
altogether inferior to the white race, to be kept 
at bay and not touched for fear of defilement. ’ ’ 

Just then Allan Brooke came in, his cheeks 
ruddy with exercise, and brought with him a 
sweet reviving breath of frosty air, the weather 
being very cold. 

u Frank my boy, I am delighted to see you 
down. There’s nothing like a magnet to draw 
sick people out of their shells. Do you know 
that in France they make great use of the mag- 
net to cure diseases?” he said pleasantly, as he 
came round and shook hands with his nephew. 

“ I can readily believe that, sir, I feel so much 
better under the attraction of mine, or rather — ” 
he whispered to Lucia, “ when near my guardian 
angel.” 

u But I tell you what, Frank; I have been to 
the stables, and, taking advantage of your being 
confined to the house, and the prospect of the 
little journey I was speaking of last night, I 
have given orders for those horses of yours to be 
used in one of the heavy farm wagons for a 
week or two, to break them thoroughly before 
you drive them again.” 

“Thanks, sir; it is just what I should have 
asked,” he replied. 

“Now, Lucia dear, I must just pick up some- 
thing to eat. I’m going to St. Inigoes to make 
some preliminary arrangements with Father 
Jannison about the monument to Lord Balti- 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


328 

more, — I want to have it under way before I get 
off for the winter,” said Allan Brooke, draw- 
ing off his gloves, his countenance beaming with 
affection as he stood upon the rug before the 
bright, blazing wood-fire. 

“That is splendid news, Guardy; I wish I 
could go with you, but I have to make some pro- 
motions in my work-room to-day. The children 
are getting on so well, and so much beyond my 
hopes, — why, Guardy, they know ever so much 
of the catechism! But, good-bye. Give my 
love to Father Jannison. I’ll just run and order 
them to bring some cold ham and things to you 
here, and be sure you eat a hearty lunch before 
you start. Good-bye, Frank; take care of your- 
self. I shall be back by-and-by!” said Lucia 
blithely as she hurried away. 

“I may not be back to-night, Frank,” said 
Allan Brooke, after Lucia was gone. “I wish 
to prepare myself for my new duties by receiv- 
ing all the strength I can from the Sacraments, 
and shall be obliged to stay over for Mass to- 
morrow morning.” 

“I wish I were strong enough to go with 
you,” answered Frank Yellott, disguising with 
an effort his contempt for what he considered 
the priest-ridden weakness of his uncle. 

“I trust, Frapk, that you will be strengthened 
in all your good resolves by the same Divine 
helps before very long. I tell you, my boy, that 
your faith, with all the helps it brings, is the 
only sure safeguard, and the strongest anchor 
of the soul amid the warring elements of life.” 

“I’m sure of that sir,” he replied in a low 
voice. 

A servant came in with a tray of refreshments, 


zot's DAUGHTER. 


329 


of which Allan Brooke partook with all the zest 
of a wholesome appetite before going away. 

When left alone Frank Yellott burst into a 
lond laugh, and stretched out his arms as if in- 
finitely relieved. He got up and walked to the 
window, looked out a little while, then threw 
himself upon a lounge, and drawing from his 
dressing-gown pocket a small copy of Voltaire’s 
Essays, received the day before from a friend in 
New York, he was soon absorbed in a perusal of 
its contents. Letters from his mother and sis- 
ters had come also by the same mail. They had 
just returned from Europe, and their congratula- 
tions on his approaching marriage were effusive 
and ardent. His mother was overjoyed, and 
sent the most loving messages to Lucia that 
her adroit pen could frame; she “had brought 
the most beautiful presents for her new daughter, 
and was so impatient to embrace her. When 
should she come?” 

Frank Yellott gave a little, low laugh when 
he came to this. He knew his mother so well, 
and saw through it all so perfectly! “Oh no, 
my good mother,” he said, refolding the letter; 
“it will not be convenient to me to have you here 
yet awhile; you’d spoil my game before I’m ex- 
actly sure of it myself.” 

As Lucia was coming home that afternoon, 
well satisfied with the labors of the day and their 
results, she met Maum Chloe, who had some- 
thing large and heavy in her arms, well wrapped 
up in a gay-colored shawl, the greatest piece of 
finery that she possessed. 

“ What in the world have you got there, Maum 
Chloe?” 

“Just this, honey,” said the old woman, who 


33 ° 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


lifted a corner of the shawl, showing Lucia the 
old Bible that had been on the table in Allan 
Brooke’s room so many years. 

“Where are you taking it to?” 

“ Home, honey, to put it in the bottom of my 
chist. I had a dream larst night, and I thought 
I seen ‘ Haylands ’ all slidin’ and meltin’ away; 
an’ the sky was full of fire, honey, like clouds, 
and I felt it a-scotchin’ of me; and when every- 
thing was a’ most gone, the ole book here like a 
big seventy-four anchor hauled it back; and thar 
was great distress in my dream, ’stress and con- 
fusion, and I missed you, honey; then I hunted 
and hunted, and at larst seen you settin’ way off 
on a rock, whar the water was rollin’ and rollin’ 
black and stormy all around you, and crawlin’ 
up nigher and nigher to you; and I waked up all 
of a trimble, and covered with cold sweat, that 
skeert I didn’t know what to do. I don’t be- 
lieve in dreams, nohow; but it sort of made me 
oneasy; and as Mars’ Allan gave me the old 
book, I thought I’d fotch it away as soon’s 
ever I could.” 

“You foolish old Maummy ! How cunning 
you are; you just want to get me down to your 
cottage oftener, for how could you live without 
hearing the old stories read now and then? But 
[’ll come, never fear that.” 

“You go ’long, chile. I’m cornin’ right back 
to bandage that ’ar arm; tain’t half tended to,” 
answered Maum Chloe, chuckling and nodding 
her head, as she hurried past towards her cabin, 
while Lucia went homeward; stepping lightly 
and swiftly over the variegated leaves that cov- 
ered the ground, and ‘pinging like a bird scraps 
of song out of very blithesome ness. A thought 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 33 1 

had come unbidden into her heart that day, 
which had filled it with a strange, tender joy, 
almost indefinable to herself, but it had calmed 
many secret misgivings, and diffused a new 
brightness over the path of duty and sacrifice she 
had marked out for herself; it was the thought 
that in time she might come to love Frank Yellott. 

And so the sunshine of prosperity and hap- 
piness shone fairly over “Hay lands,” and its 
inmates. The love and favor of God, peace and 
good will toward all, riches, worldly honor, 
trusting, loving hearts, good works, well treated 
and happy slaves, left nothing to be desired 
under that roof; the sum of their felicity seemed 
complete. It is true that there was a serpent 
coiled in this earthly Eden, but all hidden and 
unseen, his venom yet unfelt, the trusting, guile- 
less hearts of the dwellers therein were not dis- 
turbed by dread or mistrust. Such happiness 
may well make one stand still and be afraid, be- 
cause a rebound is inevitable — the tide must turn 
at its flood, and human affairs, when they reach 
their zenith, like stars, begin to go down. 

We have read somewhere of how St. Ambrose 
and two of his disciples, being once on a journey, 
were invited to partake of the hospitality of a 
rich and powerful nobleman, who boasted at his 
table, which was loaded with gold and silver and 
costly viands, that he had never had a misfortune 
or trial of any sort in his life. His wife was 
good and beautiful, his children brave and 
comely, his fortune magnificent, while honors 
and dignities crowded upon him. 

“In the name of God, let us begone,” said 
St. Ambrose to his disciples; “let us fly from a 
house upon which the shadow of Christ’s Cross 


332 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


has never rested, and upon whose inmates no 
sign of God’s love, in the chastisements with 
which He marks His children, qan be seen. Get 
us hasten away, my brethren, for a great fear is 
upon me.” 

They left the banqueting hall, and were hurry- 
ing on their way as rapidly as they could, when 
they heard a terrific crash which filled the valley 
with reverberating thunders, and clouded the air 
with dust until the sunshine was hidden. The 
devout men fell upon their knees, awaiting in 
silent prayer the result of so singular an occur- 
rence, and wondering what commotion of nature 
had caused it. But when the confusion sub- 
sided, where was the stately castle from which 
they had just fled ? There was nothing left on its 
site but piles of shapeless ruins, under which its 
gay inmates, crushed and dead, were entombed. 

“They had their good things in this life,” said 
the holy man, ‘ ‘ their hearts, puffed up with pride, 
forgot the Giver, and judgment has overtaken 
them in the midst of their boasting. Let us 
cling to the Cross, my brethren, though its 
splinters wound us; let us walk in the valley 
of humility and poverty, treading the same path 
our Redeemer walked, and all will be well with 
us in the end.” 

* * * * * * 

It was the eve of Allan Brooke’s departure, 
and Lucia was sitting with him in the library. 
She had been reading to him; but laying her 
book down to hear some remarks he had to make 
on the poem, she did not resume it, for their 
conversation wandered from verses into a grave, 
sad, retrospective train of talk, which ended in 
his telling her all the story of his early life, with 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 33 3 ' 

the cruel disappointment which had thrown so^, 
deep a shadow over it. It was the first time 
Lucia had heard it, altho’ she had heard allu- 
sions, hints and even scraps of it, and had put 
much together in her own mind relating to it. 
But now she had it from his own lips. He cast 
no blame on the mother, whose memory she so 
dearly loved; all was covered with a sweet mantle 
of pity, which hid poor Zoe’s sin from her 
child, and Lucia never knew from hint or word 
of his how bitterly he had been dealt with, or 
how much he had suffered. At its close he 
got up, and taking a small key from his watch 
chain, he unlocked the panel in the wall, and 
showed her the beautiful portrait of her mother, 
so long concealed there, and which no eye except 
his own and Father Jannison’s had ever looked 
upon. The red glow of the west shone upon it, 
warming it into hues of life; and it seemed as 
though the silent figure would step from its 
frame, or break the silence of its shadowy love- 
liness. Tears streamed over Lucia’s face as she 
gazed upon it; but neither of them spoke, — their 
hearts were too full. At last he put his arm 
around her, and holding her head for a moment 
to his breast, kissed her forehead, and said: 

“So we shall find her, clothed in celestial 
grace and youth, when we pass over to the other 
shore. You, my child, have consoled me for all; 
and if the prayers and blessings of a tried heart 
avail anything, you have mine now and always.” 

Then he locked the panel and walked quietly . 
out of the library, not trusting himself to speak 
again, lest his own emotion should increase hers; 
for she was always first with him, and if any 
pain was to be endured, he wanted his own heart 
to feel the first brunt of it. 


334 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 


Lucia sunk down on the lounge, filled with a 
tender sadness, and a great love for this man who 
had been friend and father to her, and deemed the 
sacrifice of her very life, should it be necessary, 
too little to show her gratitude. As if in answer 
to her thoughts, she heard a few minor chords 
struck upon the organ, and swelling out like 
a wail from the music room along the wide hall; 
then a masterly voluntary, and at last all flowed 
into the heavenly numbers of his favorite anthem. 
Never had his voice sounded more full or clear: 
never had it thrilled her with such triumphant 
sweetness as when he sang: “Though I walk 
thro’ the valley and shadow of death, I will fear 
no evil, for Thou art near me, and Thy rod 
and Thy staff shall comfort me,” and so on to 
the end. And it sounded as if his soul were in the 
words — inebriated with strength and consolation. 

“I will not go to him now,” thought Lucia; 
“he is within the holy of holies, and his soul 
speaks with God. Oh, my Guardy, my darling! 
May our Blessed Mother of Sorrows crown your 
heart some day with rejoicing!” 

The music ceased, fainting, wandering, throb- 
bing into silence like a passing life; the twilight 
shadows crept in; night, with its purple gloom and 
stars, wrapped the earth in its restful embrace. 
Then lights began to flit thro’ the house; fires 
were replenished; wax candles lit; the evening 
meal, with its bright array of silver and rich 
china, its delicate dishes, and little vases of 
winter roses glowing here and there, awaited 
the master. Frank came in, and he and Lucia 
were talking gaily over the morrow’s journey, 
but still he did not come, and still they waited, 
and at last began to wonder where he could be. 


335 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 

“Where was he last?” asked Frank Yellott. 

“ In the music-room,” answered Lucia; “but 
perhaps he has gone back into the library, and 
fallen asleep there. I’ll run and see.” 

She started to leave the room, and had got as 
far as the door, when a wild unearthly shriek 
rang through the house, a shriek full of horror 
and agony. White and trembling, Lucia paused, 
leaning against the door frame. Frank Yellott 
took the candle from her hand and ran forward, 
following the fearful sounds, which were repeated 
with awful intensity, into the music-room, where 
a sight greeted him which almost froze him with 
horror. Allan Brooke lay upon the floor, where 
he had evidently fallen, dead; and Maum Chloe, 
who had come there in search of him, and lighted 
one or two candles, thinking he might have 
fallen asleep in one or two of the cushioned chairs, 
had stumbled against his prostrate form, and 
finding him cold and lifeless, lost all control of 
herself, and wild with grief, beat her breast, 
uttering cries of anguish that filled the house. 

Lucia, at first unable to move for very dread, 
wondered what awful thing had happened: then 
came the sudden thought of her guardian, ac- 
companied. by a sickening fear, that drove her 
tottering towards the scene. No need to ask 
what it meant — she saw it, and knew it by the 
marble whiteness and stillness of the dead face 
at her feet. She stood a moment looking down 
upon it with wide frightened eyes, her face of a 
ghastly pallor; then slowly sinking on the floor 
beside him, she lifted his head tenderly and laid 
it upon her lap, and a low wailing cry escaped 
her lips. “Oh, if I had only come with him! 
Oh, Guardy, my darling! if I had only stood 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


336 

by you while you walked through the Valley and 
Shadow of Death, singing, singing, singing, and 
I listening but not knowing. Oh, if I had been 
with you you might not’ have died. You were 
.coming to call me, I know. And after all, for 
me not to be here — after all the last loving words! 
Oh Guardy, how did I know they were to be 
the last!” she murmured, caressing the cold 
peaceful face which lay upturned to hers, full of 
majestic peace and that awful serenity which 
death alone can give. 

Frank Yellott was stunned and shocked be- 
yond expression. He tried to get Lucia away, 
he tried to hush Maum Chloe’s cries and moans, 
as she leaned over the body, rocking herself 
backwards and forwards, her face as gray as 
ashes, and refusing to be comforted; but they did 
not heed him, nor did they even, in the over- 
whelming grief of their loss, hear him. 

Servants crowded into the hall and around 
the doors, frightened and sobbing. No one 
thought of doing anything, or dreamed that any- 
thing could be 'done, seeing that the master was 
dead, until Bligh, the gardener, came with his 
cool Scotch head, and pushing them aside, asked 
if “the doctor had been sent for? Here boys, 
go get a mattress and some pillows, and help me 
lift your master up on the sofa; then I’ll go for 
the doctor myself.” The things were brought 
instantly, and the master was lifted gently in 
the strong arms of his slaves, and laid on the 
couch improvised for him. Lucia, grasping 
eagerly at Bligh’s suggestion of the Doctor, knelt 
close beside him, holding his hand and watching 
if happily some sign of life might show itself in 
the half-closed eyes, and still she moaned “Oh, 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


337 


if I had only come! — if I had only come! If I 
had only been here to help you at first! But 
to lie here hours, dying all alone, and I — I — 
laughing, talking, so near, yet knowing noth- 
ing! ” 

Poor Lucia was like one in the whirl of a 
sudden tempest; she could see nothing, think of 
nothing, in the terrible anguish that wrung her 
heart, to comfort her; nature held sway, and 
felt only the cruel wound inflicted with such 
fearful suddenness. But presently, when nature 
should sink exhausted tinder the cross, the 
grieved heart would recognize Who walked be- 
side her; she would know Whose cross she was 
bearing, and feel that, although He might slay 
her, yet would she trust Him to the end. 


338 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER VII. 

‘ ‘ OUT OF THE DEPTHS. ’ * 

That was a night never, to be forgotten — the 
night that the master of “ Haylands ” was 
stricken dead in the noon of his life, in the ful- 
ness of his honor. Lights shone from the win- 
dows — but how silent and hushed the house! 
The wood-fires glowed and crackled upon the 
wide hearths; but their bright cheer had no glad- 
ness in it. Loving forms moved about, but they 
moved noiselessly, like ghosts, and spoke in low 
whispers, as if dreading to break the deep still- 
ness of the solemn hours. 

The first wild outburst of sudden grief was 
over; it had sunk into bewildered silence — sink- 
ing, like a stone thrown into the water, down, 
down into the depths of the hearts that were 
wounded by the blow. 

Away in the distant cabins of the slaves, dark 
forms huddled around the wide chimney places, 
leaning over the flickering coals, and talking in 
low, troubled voices of the sad event — doubly 
sad to them, as it left no certainty of their future, 
and much to dread. For in those days, when a 
good master died, no matter how faithful his 
slaves may have been, no matter how kindly and 
indulgently treated, no matter what their moral 
worth, or their value as chattels, when the estate 
came to be settled up, and portioned off to the 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 


339 


various heirs, according to the law, there was 
generally a great severing of family ties, part- 
ings without hope, and separations the very 
thought of which was more cruel than death. 
These evils were rarely of the master’s wish or 
will; they were simply the inevitable result of 
the slave system, which under then existing laws, 
might be foreseen, but could not be averted. It 
was very often the case that a property was en- 
cumbered by debt, and slaves bringing a better 
price than land, were sold to the highest bidder, 
to do no matter what, to go no matter where, 
for the purpose of satisfying the claims of their 
owner’s creditors. The heirs themselves were 
frequently compelled, by their own necessities, 
to sell as soon as they came into possession of 
their living, breathing legacies; and it was al- 
ways a dark day to the poor slaves, when “the 
old master who was good to them died.” 

The negroes at “Haylands” had often talked 
over the prospect of falling into the hands of the 
Yellotts, among themselves, particularly after 
they heard that “Miss Lucia was goin’ to marry 
Mars’ Frank,” and the prevailing sentiment 
among them was that he would bring them to 
grief; for they, by ways they had of finding out, 
knew exactly what manner of man he was, and 
how little to be trusted. 

“Besides,” said one of the old patriarchs of 
their number, “dey’s Yankees; de mother’s Vir- 
ginny born, but de childrens all Yankees, and 
would’ nt be boddered wid us; dey’d sell us right 
off for what we’d fetch, and go norf and spen’ de 
money.” 

And so they sat talking and crooning over the 
coals, dropping many a big tear as they recalled 


340 


Z0£’S DAUGHTER. 


their master’s various acts of kindness towards 
them, until far in the night. 

Wonderfully patient and submissive, the slave 
bore his heavy cross without murmur of resist- 
ance, and when struck and told to “go faster” 
by some brutal task-master, he only bided God’s 
time with simple faith, and in words of esoteric 
significance, comforted himself with the hope of 
a great day of “Jubilee” surely coming, which 
would deliver His poor people from their op- 
pressors and their chains. We refer to these 
things because they form part of the history of 
the times of our story; and some years hence, 
when slavery is almost forgotten in the land, it 
will be a matter of interest to those who never 
saw the system in operation, to read something 
illustrative of its influence and effects. 

Frank Yellott endeavored to persuade Lucia to 
leave the body by whose side she knelt, and to 
whose frozen hand she clung, thinking that the 
scene was altogether more than she could bear; 
but she was in that unreasoning state when the 
mental equilibrium, just trembling in the bal- 
ance, is incapable of weighing effects, or of list- 
ening to argument — when no will is left but the 
will to cling to the great sorrow that strikes and 
lacerates the heart prostrated at its feet. As the 
surface of the sea is lashed into storm and tem- 
pest by adverse winds which disturb not the 
eternal calm of its depths, so afflictions which 
swoop suddenly down upon the unprepared 
heart, torture and toss nature into such wild 
tempests that even the voice of Him who 
calmed the stormy Sea of Gallilee, speaking to 
the soul in holy accents of peace, is for the time 
unheard and unheeded. 


zoic’s daughter. 


341 


“But Lucia,” he said gently, “your staying 
here will do no good; it is too distressing, too 
great a tax on your nerves. Come, won’t you 
come away?” 

“ I will not go away from him. Let me stay, 
Frank; I will be very still, but I will not go,” 
she answered, in tones unnaturally clear and 
low. 

“ But he is dead.” 

“You say lie is dead, but the sound of his 
voice is on the air still; I hear it, and I will kneel 
here, watching and praying, lest he awake and 
wonder where I am.” 

Her face was as white as Parian marble, while 
her luxuriant black hair, loosened from the 
comb, fell like a mourning veil over her should- 
ers to the floor. Now and then she touched the 
broad, massive forehead of the dead, but its icy 
coldness made her shudder, and his hand, which 
she held close pressed to her heart, growing 
colder and colder as the last glow of vitality 
departed, chilled all hope little by little. It 
seemed strange to her to see him lying there so 
utterly still ; never had she seen so serene an ex- 
pression on the loved and nobl% face; and now 
that death, like a master sculptor giving the last 
exquisite finish to his work, was touching its 
lines bringing out all that was best and lovely 
until it looked like chiseled marble, never had 
she seen his countenance wear so grand an as- 
pect. But the silence ! the awful silence ! the 
mystery ! the impenetrable veil now drawn be- 
tween her bleeding heart and the motionless 
heart which had all along beaten with such 
warm, watchful love for her ! how could she 
bear it? how could she believe that he would 


342 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


never speak to her again, never brighten her 
life with his genial smile and cheering words? 

While Lucia knelt there, frightened, be- 
wildered and doubting, Mail m Cliloe sat on the 
floor, crouched at the dear master’s feet, uttering 
low shivering sighs, wringing her hands, and 
biting back her outbursts of grief until her lips 
were stained with blood, because a cruel whisper 
had sounded in her ear, threatening to send her 
away if she did not keep quiet. She knew the 
voice, and knew that the cruel heart would not 
stop at a threat — for was not he master now ? 
The thought was worse than death — it was the 
crucifixion added to the cross, to her poor old 
broken heart, and she so defenceless, so helpless! 

Frank Yellott drew a large chair into the deep 
oriel window, and threw himself back on the 
cushions, trying to collect and compose his 
thoughts. The heavy damask curtains partially 
concealed the sad group at the other end of the 
drawing-room from him. Like the ancient 
Greeks, he had a horror of death, and would 
have drowned the sounds of mourning in bursts 
of music and revelry; but here it had met him 
face to face in all' its grim reality, shocking his 
sensuous nature into something of a cowardly 
fear. He had done, however, what the needs of 
the event demanded; he had sent messengers to 
St. Inigoes, and Bligh had driven away in hot 
haste for Dr. Bean. Others had been dispatched 
on horseback to carry the sad intelligence to 
certain old family friends in the neighborhood; 
and there was nothing to do but to wait. Some- 
thing like a genuine sentiment of sorrow 
softened his heart with momentary emotions 
now and then, when he thought of the fatherly 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


343 


affection, tlie unselfish liberality, and all the 
kindness of his uncle towards him; but an in- 
voluntary feeling of exultation mingled itself 
with his natural regrets, smothering the faint 
sparks of affection in the thought that the 
fortune so long coveted was now within his 
grasp. What he called chance had favored him 
beyond his expectations, and the golden antici- 
pation of the future was an elixir which would 
strengthen him to bear with philosophic calm- 
ness the calamity of his loss. He went once to 
speak to Lucia, which he did very soothingly 
and tenderly; but without even turning her 
white face towards him, she only said, speaking 
in the same clear, unnatural tones: 

“Do not disturb me, please; I am calm, you 
see; but don’t you know that prayers may help 
him, if he indeed be dead ? I am praying to our 
Lady of Sorrows to help him, living or dead.” 

Frank Yellott walked away, but instead of go- 
ing back to the oriel window, he crossed the 
hall, took a candle from the dining-room table, 
and, stepping noiselessly, went towards the 
library, the door of which was closed. He 
paused a moment upon the threshold before 
opening the door, and when he did so he still 
paused, and, peering curiously into the darkness 
before him, started back; he imagined there was 
some one sitting in his uncle’s clair. A strange, 
eerie feeling came over him, and he would have 
gone away but for that shadowy something lean- 
ing back in the chair. He thought of all the 
valuable papers in the draws and cabinets; it 
might be some thief who would steal them — per- 
haps the will itself, and ruin all. He thrust his 
hand into his breast-pocket, grasping the small 


344 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


pistol he always carried there, and holding the 
candle above his head, he approached the mo- 
tionless object, and found it to be nothing but 
his uncle’s large Spanish cloak, thrown there, 
when he came in late that evening, by his own 
hands. Relieved, and yet biting his lips with 
anger at his momentary weakness, he placed a 
candle upon the library table, and removing the 
cloak, threw himself into the chair to recover en- 
tirely from the effects of his fright before return- 
ing to the drawing-room. Involuntarily he be- 
gan to finger the loose papers lying about on the 
table; on some of them he recognized his uncle’s 
cramped, regular handwriting, and thinking per- 
haps there might be something of importance 
among them which should be taken care of, he 
examined them more closely. He remembered 
his uncle frequently deplored his own careless- 
ness, and two or three times had come near hav- 
ing heavy losses through mislaying deeds and 
other papers. But there was nothing here of 
any importance, except Mauin Chloe’s free 
papers, and a memorandum written in pencil on 
the back of a letter dated: 

“ May 20th. 

“This day, Lucia d’Olivieras, my beloved 
ward, solemnly promised me that when I died 
I should be buried near her mother. This is 
my request to all whom it may concern, that I 
be laid in the spot designated. 

“Allan Brooke.” 

“Suppose there should be no will?” suddenly 
thought Frank Yellott, pushing the papers aside, 
“what then? Mrs. Yellott and her three chil- 
dren inherit the estate by law, without incum- 
brance or division! That would be highly de- 
sirable, and I hope he has died intestate.” 


zois’s DAUGHTER. 


345 


Full of these selfish thoughts, without a single 
feeling of tenderness or ruth for Lucia, he pulled 
open the table drawer, and finding other papers 
in it, began to turn them over and read them, 
refolding and carefully replacing them; then he 
walked over to the private escritoire in the re- 
cess. The key was by strange accident in the 
lock; he opened it, and had reached out his hand 
to take from its place a carefully folded package 
of papers which looked suspiciously like a will, 
when he heard horses’ hoofs and men’s voices 
approaching the house. He had meant no harm, 
and had he found the will he only intended look- 
ing over it, if unsealed; but he started, closed 
the escritoire hastily, and went towards the door, 
where he stood listening. It would not have 
looked well for him to have been found turning 
over his uncle’s private papers and poking into 
his affairs so soon after his death and before he 
was quite cold. In fact, the thing would not 
have borne a legal investigation had it been dis- 
covered, particularly if any question arose about 
the will, making one necessary. 

The hall door was open, and Dr. Bean walked 
in, wearing a troubled countenance, and moving 
as if he shrank from what he had to encounter. 
Frank Yellott met him, and the old man wrungf 
his hand, but did not speak, then followed him 
into the drawing room where the body lay. 

“Miss Lucia, my dear, this is hard upon you, 
upon us all,” said the old doctor, his tears fall- 
ing like rain, as he leaned over her and laid his 
hand gently upon her shoulder. 

“Yes! very, very hard; but don’t send me 
away, and please lose no time — it has been so 
long, so very long since we found him in this 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


346 

way. I don’t think he is dead, doctor, because 
his hand does not feel so cold as it did, and I am 
sure that I have seen him breathe,” she 
answered. 

“ God grant it, my dear; God grant it, for we 
can but ill spare him,” answered the old doc- 
tor, throwing off his overcoat and preparing for 
work, but without a hope, for his experience 
told him at once that this was death: but he 
faithfully applied every restorative known to his 
skill, patiently and untiringly; when one failed 
he tried another, with like result, Lucia kneel- 
ing near by, and watching with glittering, tear- 
less eyes all that was done, while her white lips 
moved in prayer, whispering the decade of the 
Passion of Jesus and Mary, watching as if her 
life hung upon the doctor’s verdict. At last he 
spoke. 

“It is no use attempting anything further: life 
is entirely extinct. My opinion is that death 
was instantaneous and without the faintest strug- 
gle. I have suspected heart disease for some 
time,” and then the old doctor quite broke 
down, and cried like a schoolboy. 

Lucia heard every word, although he had 
spoken in a low whisper to Frank Yellott ; her 
last hope vanished, and a cry of bitter anguish 
escaped her lips as she fell fainting to the floor. 
Dr. Bean lifted her in his arms, and bore her to 
her room, thankful for tne rest that the swoon 
would give her overtaxed nerves, and sat beside 
her until she showed signs of recovery. He had 
prepared a composing draught, and succeeded in 
persuading her, in her half consciousness to 
swallow it. It soon took effect, and directing 
her maid to throw something warm over her, he 
went down stairs. 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


347 


When she awoke with a start from her deep 
sleep, a sense of something dreadful oppressing 
her — the sun. was shining through her ivy- 
draped windows, and a robin was singing blithely 
among the leaves; for a moment she was be- 
wildered. Then all came to her. 

“How did it happen? Oh, my God! Dead! 
Oh, Guardy ! can it be that you are dead?” she 
wailed; “and the sun shining? and that bird 
singing there? and the river running bright, 
just as it did yesterday?” Then a torrent of 
tears gushed from her burning eyes, relieving 
the pressure on her heart and brain. The door 
opened, and the ashy face of Maum Chloe looked 
in, and seeing that Lucia was awake, she came 
tottering towards her, with a look so piteous and 
desolate that Lucia held out her hand, and lay- 
ing her head upon the old woman’s breast, they 
wept their common loss together. Separated by 
race, color and social laws, they were united by 
a bond of sympathy stronger than death, and 
the threads of their lives were interwoven by 
strange circumstances which time alone could 
develop. 

Lucia felt a broad hand laid upon her head as 
if in benediction: she started, and looking up 
quickly, saw Father Jannison standing by her 
side, a grieved, sorrowful expression on his 
countenance, and traces of tears upon his eyelids. 
It was his cross as well as hers, Lucia well knew; 
for as David loved Jonathan, so had the good 
priest loved Allan Brooke, and never in all his 
career had he known a sorrow that struck as 
deeply as this. 

“ Have courage, my child; it is a heavy cross, 
but our Father in Heaven sends it. Let us re- 


348 


ZOIj’s DAUGHTER. 


member the sorrows of our blessed Mother. We 
must, we must indeed try to be patient, and re- 
signed like her;” was all that Father Jannison 
could say, in a broken voice. Then he walked 
over to the window, where he relieved his full 
heart by weeping in silence. He had come in his 
priestly character to the house of mourning to 
comfort the afflicted, but by the bier of his 
dead friend human nature asserted itself, and he 
himself felt all the need of that Divine strength 
and consolation which alone can lift up the sor- 
rowful heart and bid it be glad. He knew, too, 
that this was not the moment to offer consolation 
or insist upon resignation, to the hearts so 
sharply and suddenly bereaved; nature crying 
out her bitterness must have way, like stormy 
tides and winds before the still small voice of 
God’s patient angel, waiting and watching for 
the moment to whisper peace, could be heard, or 
faith take the place of unreasoning grief, to lead 
the soul heavenward for that consolation which 
earth cannot give. 

He knelt for a short time at Lucia’s oratory, 
and besought the aid of her who had endured 
the supremest sorrow ever known to humanity, 
and besought her to pity their weakness, and 
help them with her strong, tender hand. 

“Lucia, my child, and you my poor Maummy, 
who nursed the one whom we all mourn at your 
own breast, this is a heavy, heavy blow, and I 
can’t tell you not to grieve,” said Father Janni- 
son, when he arose from his knees, “but while 
you grieve and shed tears for the dead, don’t fail 
to ask the aid of the Mother of Jesus, who stood 
weeping at the cross, of her martyred Son, her- 
self the Queen of Martyrs. She never turns 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


349 


away from the sorrowful, for her own heart was 
pierced by pangs sharper and crueller than a two- 
edged sword, and the beings purchased by the 
passion and death of her divine Son are dear be- 
yond all price to her; they are her children by 
the baptism of His blood, and she counts their 
tears, and gives ear to their sighs, offering them, 
in union with His bitter passion, to the Eternal 
Father. We cannot die even when wounded 
almost to death. Grief seldom kills; life and its 
warfare, its responsibilities and struggles, still 
lie before us, and we must gird ourselves to meet 
them, even though we go, like the cows bearing 
the ark, moaning into the wilderness,* leaving 
all that is dear to nature behind us. Have 
courage, my children, I am speaking to myself 
as well as to you; for this sudden taking off of 
my best friend comes hard to me, for I shall 
never look upon his like again. If ever a pure 
heart was called to meet the promised reward, 
Allan Brooke is now dwelling in the eternal 
bliss of the presence of God.” 

“Oh! Father Jannison, are you sure that he is 
dead?” asked Lucia piteously. 

“My poor child, he is dead. Our love can do 
nothing now but follow him whither he has gone, 
and pray for his eternal repose; for if the angels 
themselves are not without blemish in the eyes 
of the Eternal Father, so may our friends who in 
our eyes were perfect while living carry with 
them before Him some stain we knew not of, 
from the: penalty of which they can otily’ be re- 
leased^By our fervent prayers. ’ ’ 

“Oh, God 1 oh, my God! help me!” she 


i Kings, Chapter VI., 7-12 verses. 


350 zoic's daughter. 

cried, in a passion of grief. “It kills me to 
hear him talked of as of a thing past and gone ! 
It was only last night that he was here, opening 
his heart and life to me, drawing me closer and 
closer to him by his goodness — and now! Oh 
Father, if I had only gone to him when I heard 
him singing — did you know that he sang Domi- 
nus regit me * just a minute before, filling the 
house with the anthem, and I stood listening 
while he entered the ‘Valley of the Shadow of 
Death,’ never going to him when I might have 
helped hin ! Oh, Guardy, Guardy ! how could 
you leave me?” 

“Lucia, my child, look here!” said Father 
Jannison, laying his hand on Maum Chloe’s 
shoulder. The poor broken-hearted old woman, 
exhausted by grief and excitement, had fainted, 
her head resting against Lucia’s pillow. It was 
a good thing for both; it rested the tired aching 
heart of one, and was a strong appeal to the 
other, and gave her something for her hands to 
do outside her own grief, which checked for the 
time its unreasoning current, afid by its demands 
for ministration gave her strange relief. For- 
getting self, her sprained arm, and the heavy 
sorrow which so strained the fibres of her heart, 
she arose quickly from the bed, and with Father 
Jannison’s help, laid Maum Chloe upon it, and 
ringing for her maid, sent for such restoratives as 
were needed. When the old creature recovered 
and saw Lucia bending over her, she whispered: 

“You’s all I got left now, honey.’'’ 

Lucia acknowledged the claim, and felt that 
she was not to live for herself, to nurse a grief 


* Psalm xxii. 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 35 1 

^and indulge in emotions which would avail 
nothing. 

“No,” was the response of her soul, “a sense- 
less, unchristian grief will not bring him back; 
and must I despair? Oh, Guardy! you yourself 
would be the first to chide me if you could speak 
out of the silence! But I cannot help myself; I 
cannot heal up the wound all at once! Oh, 
Mother of Mercy! pity and help me, that I may 
help others; befriend me, now that I am left 
desolate.” 

This was the first feeble approach of that 
mourning heart towards resignation — a balm 
which is slow in distilling from the cross, the 
precious myrrh and aloes with which the Angel 
of Death embalms the memory of the Dwellers 
of the Sepulchre, after the tyrannic demands of 
nature are sloughed away, and the soul conforms 
itself to the Divine Will. And from that hour, 
Lucia, in the desolation of her spirit, in her 
tempests of weeping, in the wild fits of grief that 
would sweep over her with greater violence from 
having been suppressed, did gird her spirit up, 
and whisper: 

“I will try! I fail, but I will try again. 
Help me, Madre Dolorosa /” 

She scarcely knew how she got through those 
dreadful days. Neighbors came from far and 
near to offer sympathy and assistance; and two 
ladies, old friends of Allan Brooke’s, remained 
at Lucia’s request, took her place, and directed 
all that could be done to be done according to 
her wishes. 

“Keep the blessed candles burning day and 
night, and tell Bligh to bring the fairest and 
rarest flowers to place around him. Oh, it may 


352 


zoe’s daughter. 


seem childish to think of such things, but he 
loved brightness and everything that was beau- 
tiful. I have heard him talk to the flowers like 
St. Francis of Assissium used to, Mrs. Frith,” 
she said to one of the ladies who had come in to 
ascertain her wishes about some of the arrange- 
ments. And in the great drawing room, the 
resting-place of the dead master looked like a 
high-altar dressed with flowers and lights as for 
a holy festival. Friends knelt there, praying for 
his eternal repose, and weeping their loss. At 
all hours of the day and night they came to take 
a farewell look and breathe a De profundis from 
their full hearts, that he might be released from 
all his debts. Maum Chloe never left the side 
of her dead foster-child — he was more to her even 
so, than all the living — except now and then, 
moving feebly, she would creep up to see if 
Lucia wanted anything, and tell her of the won- 
derful mystery of bear^y that had settled upon 
his face. Father Jannison came every day ; and 
at last, on the eve of the burial, he remained to 
celebrate a Mass for the dead on the following 
morning, for which everything had been appro- 
priately arranged under his direction in the 
great drawing-room. 

We have lQSt sight of Frank Yellott, who had 
written kind and tender words to Lu'cia, begging 
to see her; had come to her door asking admit- 
tance and imploring her to let him do something 
for her; but she could not see him yet — there 
was nothing to be done. u Tell him to be pa- 
tient with me,” she sent him word, with which 
he was obliged to be content. But on this last 
day, the sad eve of the dead master’s going, 
never to return, from his old habitation, Lucia 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


353 


wrote Frank a line, saying that it was her 
wish to go down that night, when every one 
else had retired, to take a last look at her friend; 
but that she desired to be entirely alone when 
she did so. He sent her word that it should be 
as she wished, but he feared that it would be too 
much for her to bear alone, and afterwards came 
up to her door to remonstrate with her, speaking 
very gently and softly. * She stood within. It 
was late twilight, and they did not see each 
other’s faces; but she listened to what he had to 
say, feeling that he meant kindly. 

“It’s no use, Frank; you mean well, but I 
must be alone there. My last farewell must be 
sacred to him and me,” she said. 

“But Father Jannison” — 

“No one,” she answered quickly, “no one. 
I wish to be alone.” 

“I will see then that no one gets into the 
room while you are there,” he replied gently. 

“Thank yon. I do not wish to be unreason- 
able, but I must spend that last hour with him 
alone” — a sob choked her utterance, and she 
closed her door, Frank Yellott going away with 
a derisive smile on his lips, for how could a 
nature like his comprehend the sacredness of a 
grief like this? 

It was past midnight when Lucia went down, 
and when Frank Yellott met her at the drawing- 
room door, he started and could scarcely refrain 
from expressing the shock her appearance caused 
him; for as she paused an instant, looking 
eagerly beyond him at the hundred blessed 
tapers that were burning amidst the flowers 
around the white, silent image in the centre of 
the room, the light streaming upon her wan, 
23 


354 


zofi’s DAUGHTER. 


solemn face, and'' white draperies, which con- 
trasted so intensely with the blackness of her 
eyes and hair, she looked more like a mournful 
spirit than a mortal. 

“Alone, if you please,” she whispered, and 
as he left the room, she closed the door and 
approached the bier, her heart throbbing 
to suffocation, and every emotion roused into 
a passion of grief; but when in the calm 
presence — when she looked down and saw the 
majestic and unutterable peace resting on the 
marble features, the smile so full of the mystery 
of eternal repose, the tempest of nature was 
stilled, and an elevation of feeling — a sort of 
solemn joy, filled her soul, seeming to bring her 
nearer and yet nearer to her departed friend. 
The flickering of the blessed candles trembled 
over the dead face giving it a living expression, 
while the silent breast seemed to stir once more 
with breath. But of glistening lights and rare 
flowers there was nothing in it all so purely, 
holily beautiful as that smile lingering upon the 
dead lips. Long did Lucia lean over him, gaz- 
ing with mournful tenderness on the trans- 
figured face; long did she kneel, offering her 
fervent prayers for his eternal rest. All thoughts 
of death as a cruel destroyer were forgotten, 
and in the solemn communion of spirit with 
spirit she was comforted. While she knelt, a 
thought suddenly came into her heart, which 
broke into a sad smile on her lips, and rising up 
she went into the music-room — separated from 
the drawing-room by wide folding doors, which 
were rarely closed — and went to the organ, still 
open, and with the music-books just as he had 
left them the night he died, and, sitting down, 


ZOfi’S DAUGHTER. 355 

touched the keys in soft chords; then her voice, 
low at first, rose and swelled in volume and 
richness, thrilling the silence with its solemn, 
unearthly sweetness, as she sang Dominus regit 
me. The music-room door leading into the hall 
was also open, and the exulting sounds filled the 
silent house with their harmony. The sleepers 
awoke, wondering if they still dreamed, and the 
“watchers ”* listened, awed and breathless; but 
no one intruded, for it was soon whispered from 
one to another that it was Lucia who sang, in the 
sacred strains the dead master loved best, her 
farewell. When the notes died away, she left the 
instrument, and, coming back, stood by the bier 
to take the last lingering look at the face she 
loved; then leaning over she kissed the calm, 
cold forehead, the folded hands, and the feet 
which had walked life’s pilgrimage without 
offence to God or man; then she went back to 
her room, as noiselessly as she had come. 

We will not describe the funeral rites or the 
honors paid to the memory of this good and 
great man, whose death was felt far and wide to 
be a public loss. Lucia was present, never leav- 
ing the side of the coffin until it was lowered 
into its last resting place and the earth heaped 
above it. Contrary to the fears of Father Jan- 
nison and her friends, who had dreaded a pain- 
ful scene at the last, she was composed through- 
out; only the extreme pallor of her face and the 
woe in her great, sorrowful eyes, told of the 
anguish that filled her heart. She felt as if she 
could never weep again — never be grieved by 
anything again, the blow had so completely be- 
numbed her faculties. 

* In Maryland those who sit up with the body are called 
watchers. 


356 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE WILE. 

When Lucia returned from the burial, busy 
and friendly hands had removed every trace of 
the sad arrangements of the last few days, and 
placed filings in their usual order. Bright fires 
were burning, and the astral lamps shed their 
-soft white light on the pictured walls; the tea- 
table glittered with its usual array of quaint old 
silver and richly-tinted china. There were no 
flowers on the board, good Mrs. Frith thinking 
they might bring painful remembrances; the urn 
steamed with fragrant coffee, and delicate dishes 
tempted the appetite. • All was done that her 
friendly heart could suggest, which she thought 
might draw a veil over the sorrowful scenes so 
lately passed through, and • restore an every-day 
feeling to the depressed mourners. But what 
earthly effort or power could ever fill the dead 
master’s chair? whose footsteps, voice and pres- 
ence bring such a feeling of content and cheer 
as his? There was his place at the table empty; 
there was his reading-chair by the window, and 
the book upon the stand with his eye-glasses 
marking the very page he last read; there was 
the grief-stamped countenance of the motherless 
girl he had so long loved and cared for; there 
was the broken-hearted old Maummy who had 
suckled him in his infancy, and whose pride and 
love in him could not be told, who 'wandered 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


357 


about with feeble steps, and a look upon lier 
shrunken face as if she were searching for some- 
thing she had lost, yet hoped to find. It is 
kind, O friends, to do all that you do, hoping 
to comfort the bereaved heart by making things 
look as they did before death came, but it is all 
vain. The places are yet haunted by a silent 
presence which we feel but cannot see, for all the 
wild prayers we may utter imploring it to come 
to us out of the shadowy air. Death is the mes- 
senger of God, and where He places His seal the 
wound can only find its balm of healing in the 
elixir of the Cross, after which peace, crowned 
by faith and hope, takes up her abode in the 
soul. 

Lucia retired early, but could not sleep; her 
thoughts were too busy with the future/ wonder- 
ing how she should order her life, if she would 
ever have strength to begin to shape out the new 
paths, and how best she should try to bear the 
cross, which like the one laid upon the 
shoulders of Simon the Cyrenian, was heavier and 
harder to bear from its very' unexpectedness. 

“I am not a heathen,” she thought. “Oh, 
my God ! what should I do without the hope 
Thou givest me of meeting my loved and lost 
again — a hope the heathen do not know? Then 
I must not grieve as the heathen do; I know that, 
and yet it seems that I shall walk sorrowful all 
my days. How can lever lift up my head and 
be glad in this world again? But I must not 
sorrow as one without faith, without hope; I 
must go on bearing the burden of life; I must, as 
a Christian resign myself to God’s holy will; I 
must not sit supine and idle, but be up and do- 
ing, doing and living for others. Oh ! Guardy, 


ZOIC’S DAUGHTER. 


358 

I almost lose heart when I think of you; but I 
will try — I will try very hard — to honor your 
memory, by doing all that would have best 
pleased you had you stayed. Oh, sorrowful 
Mother of Jesus, help me to bear my sorrow in 
the same spirit of patience as thou didst bear 
thine. But what can I do? What must I do 
first ? How begin ?’ ’ 

Was it a whisper? Had some one come in, 
and stood reading her thoughts? for she surely 
heards the words as distinctly uttered as if some 
one had spoken: “ Do that which thy hands find 
to do:”* and yet she saw no one, nor could she 
tell if it was an interior or natural voice, or the 
reflex of her thoughts and imagination combined; 
but however it might be, she accepted the words 
as the future rule of her life, and recited her 
rosary with the most fervent intention of con- 
forming herself to the will of .God, even while 
her tears fell, and her heart throbbed under her 
loss. 

When her maid brought up her breakfast the 
next morning, Lucia found a note on the waiter 
from Frank Yellott, begging an interview at any 
hour that would suit her best, if she felt strong 
enough to come down stairs. She felt an in- 
stantaneous dread of something indefinable, and 
had she obeyed the impulse, would have deferred 
seeing him; but strong in her resolve to fight her 
battles as they came, doing whatever presented 
itself in the path of her duty, she sent "him word 
that she would be down in a little while. 

Involuntarily almost, she went into the library; 
a bright wood fire was burning on the hearth, 

*A real experience. 


5 • 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 359 

lighting up with its red glow the quaint carving 
of the fire-place, which Allan Brooke had caused 
to be constructed after a copy he had made him- 
self, from the abbot’s room of some old monastic 
ruin in Europe. The ancient bronze ornaments 
on the mantel stood just as he had placed them, 
and the grotesque faces seemed to gaze down 
with sad inquiry at his empty chair. Eucia 
stood looking around, half tempted to go back; 
but her “bricks could not be made without 
straw,” and this she thought was one of the 
straws. “There is no use in shunning it,” she 
said, going in and looking around at the familiar 
and beloved objects, as she stood beside the fire, 
on the rug, “it would become a haunted room 
to me, if I never entered it; but coming here is 
like a surgeon’s probe. Oh, it hurts, it hurts, 
Guardy, to stand here and know that your dear 
face will never brighten the old room again! 
But after awhile, when the hurt begins to heal, 
it will seem to bring me nearer to you and to 
my mother to come here, and go there where I 
heard you singing” — 

Frank Yellott came in, and taking her hand, 
begged her to go into the breakfast- room. ‘ ‘ I 
feared,” he said, “that you might come here; 
let us go where there are fewer sorrowful 
memories. ’ ’ 

“No, this room is very dear to me,” she an- 
swered, withdrawing her hand and speaking in 
low, sad accents, “and it does not hurt me any 
worse to be here than there.” 

“Are you ill, Lucia?” he asked, scanning her 
colorless face and heavy eyes. 

“No — I am not ill. I shall feel better in a 
day or two, I think,” she said slowly, as if con- 


360 ZOIC’S DAUGHTER. 

sidering, for the first time, how it really was 
with her. 

“This mental sickness is the worst of all, 
Lucia, and I have been thinking that change of 
scene and climate would be the best thing in 
the world for you,” he said, leading her to one of 
the low fauteuils , and seating himself near her. 
“We have lost — both of us — a good and noble 
friend; but if he could speak to us he would be 
the first to counsel us to avoid excessive grief; 
and then, you know that it is one of the laws 
of Christian ethics, to accept with courage, as 
well as submission, the decrees of Providence, 
and do all that we can to preserve life, which we 
are taught is a divine gift.” 

“Yes; I have been thinking of all that, and 
shall do my best, with the help of our Blessed 
Lady. Her sorrows, you know, comprehended 
all human sorrow, and she pities while she 
helps,” answered Lucia, more as if commun- 
ing with her own heart than if she were con- 
versing. 

“That is well; but now Lucia, dear, I have 
something to say about a matter more closely 
relating to our future happiness. There is no 
use in approaching the subject ceremoniously; 
the situation is too apparent. You are left un- 
protected, and, unless you will consent to our 
immediate marriage, I shall be obliged to go 
away. Conventional usages would make that . 
necessary, and I should be very miserable, not 
only to be separated from you, but to think of 
you here, alone.” 

“No, no, Frank!” she cried, interrupting 
him, and putting out both hands as if to ward 
off all such approaches. “I cannot, I will not 


zoe;’s daughter. 361 

think of such a thing now! Do not name the 
subject to me again. I do not mean to be un- 
kind, but remember the agreement between us, 
and, even if that did not exist, I should keep 
one year, at least, sacred to the memory of my 
best friend. ” 

“It is a cruel disappointment, Lucia,” he 
began bitterly, but checked himself. “The 
separation would be nothing to you, but will be 
full of unhappiness and danger to myself; for, 
of course, I shall have to return to New York, 
and I have friends there who will not be turned 
off; friends whose embraces will be as deadly to 
my moral nature as the kraken of the North 
Sea is to the solitary fisherman upon its waters.” 

“Not if you prove yourself a true man, Frank; 
not if you have the helps of your faith, and abide 
by your promises to me,” she replied, lifting up 
her head and looking at him with a gleam of 
the old light in her eye. 

Frank Yellott could scarcely repress an impre- 
cation; he got up, and walked up and down the 
length of the library, his lips compressed, and a 
swarthy glow in the shape of a flame shooting 
up in the middle of his forehead — a hirth-mark, 
he had told Lucia, when she had asked him 
once what stain he had got upon his brow. 

“Is what you say positive, Lucia?” he asked 
presently, resuming his seat. 

“It is; but do not be angry, Frank. I have 
so much to do, so much to think about; and to 
battle all the time with my grief, at the same 
time I am trying to gather strength for new 
duties and responsibilities — why, a year seems 
altogether too short, ’ ’ she answered. 

“You take an exaggerated view of things, it 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


362 

seems to me; life is too full of realities for senti- 
mental dreams,” he replied, with the faintest 
perceptible sneer. 

“Yes, I agree with you, there’s no time for 
sentimentality, everything is so terribly real — 
but you must forgive me if I beg you to discon- 
tinue this discussion for the present. It might 
lead to something to be afterwards regretted, 
and one year is the shortest time that I can con- 
sent to a renewal of it. ” 

One year! what changes might come over 
them in one year, thought Frank Yellott, bit- 
terly. He knew that Lucia did not love him as 
women do, or sometimes fatally only think they 
do, the men they marry; and what might not 
come between them in one year, ruining his 
prospects of getting possession of the whole of 
the Brooke estate; and then how could he ever 
stand the restraint, the false position he had as- 
sumed, or keep up the character of a Catholic 
penitent, a thing at which his haughty soul 
utterly revolted? But bear it he must; he 
knew Lucia well enough to be sure that while 
she was merciful and tender in her true, 
womanly nature, she was also inflexible in her 
resolves. 

“I must submit, I suppose, Lucia,” he said, 
after a silence of some minutes; “but you’ve 
given me hard lines. Be true to me, that is all 
I ask.” 

“Thanks, Frank, I will be true to you, never 
fear that,” she answered, sadly. 

Just then the door was thrown open by a ser- 
vant who did not know there was any one in the 
library, and several gentlemen, including Father 
Jannison, were ushered in. Allan Brooke’s 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 363 

lawyer, his old life-time friend, was of the num- 
ber, and the object of their coming was obvious. 
The dead master’s will was to be opened and 
read. 

Iyucia would have avoided meeting them if 
she could, but it could not be helped now; and 
holding Father Jannison’s hand tightly grasped 
in hers, she nerved herself to receive her guar- 
dian’s old friends with grace, and in the same 
spirit of welcome that he ever extended to his 
guests. Many and kind were the words of 
condolence and sympathy they in all sincerity 
offered, pitying her in their hearts, as she stood 
so brave and sorrowful before them. Then she 
excused herself, saying that if her presence was 
needed they might send for her; and running 
swiftly up to her room, lest she might break 
down before she got there, she knelt at her prie - 
'dieu, and leaning her head upon her arm, wept 
bitterly; for she knew what they had all come 
for, and how soon there would be an unfolding 
and reading of the secret records of his pure life, 
an investigation of his private affairs, for every 
written word in those escritoires and drawers 
would have to be read to get at the status of 
matters not set down in the will. 

Hour after hour passed, and still no message 
came for her; and the gentlemen were yet there 
— she could hear the hum of their voices, some- 
times in excited discussion, sometimes in low, 
cautious tones. Maum Chloe came in with a 
troubled, bewildered look, and sat down in her 
low rush-bottomed chair, without speaking, her 
hands folded together, and gently rocking her 
body backwards and forwards as if moved by ex- 
cessive and inexpressible sorrow. 


Zof&’S DAUGHTER. 


3 6 4 

Refreshments were taken into the library; she 
had sent them in before she came up to Lucia’s 
room, knowing that the gentlemen must need 
them, it was so long past noon, and now she 
waited and waited, with a sort of dread upon her 
mind, to hear them go away. She knew it 
wouldn’t take all that time to open and read a 
will, for she remembered when her old master’s 
will was opened, and she had heard them say it 
was long enough to reach from ‘ ‘ Haylands ’ ’ to 
St. Inigoes, and it didn’t take but two hours to 
get through it. What was the matter? 

No will could be found. All search for one 
was vain. No sign of a will was to be seen, and 
nothing making the least disposition of his affairs 
showed itself, except the memorandum about his 
burial and Maum Chloe’s free papers. 

“It is the most extraordinary thing I ever 
knew,” said the lawyer, addressing the gentle- 
men grouped around him; “I wrote the will 
myself about two months ago, and saw it duly 
signed and witnessed by old Bligh and Mr. 
Frith, who happened here just as we got through. 
I have a copy of the will, but of course that is 
legally worthless. Did Mr. Brooke ever keep 
his papers in any of the other rooms ? Was he 
in the habit, for instance, of taking them up to 
his sleeping apartment?” 

“No, sir,” answered old Bligh, who had been 
sent for ; “the master kept his papers here. He 
used to say he didna want his business to be 
starin’ at him from every corner of the house. 
’Twas one of his rules to keep all his docyments 
here, and no wheer else.” 

“That’s so,” observed the lawyer, “but we 
can’t rest here. There is just a bare possibility 


ZOE)’S DAUGHTER. 365 

that our friend did, in a moment of absent-mind- 
edness, take that will and lay it down in some 
other room, maybe amongst the music in yonder, 
maybe in his own room. There must be a 
thorough search made for it, for I swear solemnly 
that the will was written, signed and witnessed.” 

“I assert the same thing,” said Father Janni- 
son, who had listened with keen interest to all 
the proceedings, “for I was with Mr. Brooke 
when Mr. Allston here sent the will home ready 
to be signed and witnessed, and Mr. Brooke 
handed it to me to read, which I did.” 

“ But it must be found — it must be found, be- 
fore it can be proved or executed. That’s the 
law, gentlemen, and the law sometimes makes 
hard cases, ’ ’ observed lawyer Allston. 

Frank Yellott was full of a secret exultation, 
and hoped in his soul that his uncle had after all 
died intestate: then he would be free, he could 
throw off the iron mask that was half killing 
him, he would come into possession — himself 
and family — of the whole of the immense estate. 
And again there was not* a thought of tender- 
ness or ruth in his mind towards Lucia — not one. 

“Mr. Allston,” said Father Jannison, almost 
in a whisper to the lawyer, “suppose no will 
should be found, how will it fare with Lucia 
D’Olivieras?” 

“She will be quite beggared, poor young lady. 
In the will there was splendid provision made for 
her — no less than one-half the estate ; but in 
case the will can’t be found, the legal construc- 
tion will be that poor Brooke destroyed it, and 
Mrs. Yellott and her children will get every- 
thing.” 

This was said in an undertone to Father Jan- 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


366 

nison and one or two gentlemen standing close 
by, all of whom were deeply concerned, on 
Lucia’s account, at the turn affairs had taken. 

“But, gentlemen,” said Mr. Allston, elevating 
his voice, “what nonsense to take it for granted 
that a man like Allan Brooke, so careful in all 
business matters, should either have destroyed 
this will without notifying his legal adviser of 
the act, or made out and mislaid a later one ! It 
is somewhere in this house, depend upon it, and 
every nook and corner must be searched for it. 
It is growing late, and I must be gone, for I have 
a case before the county court to-morrow ; but I 
will meet you all here the day after ; meanwhile, 
knowing Bligh to be a strictly honorable man” — 

“ Thank’ ee, thank’ ee, Mr. Allston,” inter- 
rupted Bligh, with a scrape of his foot. 

“Welcome, Bligh! I commission him, with 
Father Jannison to look in and make notes, (if 
he will consent,) to search for that will.” 

“ The affair could not be left in safer hands,” 
said several of the gentlemen. 

“I know that. Mr. Yellott cannot help them, 
being too largely interested as one of the princi- 
pal heirs; but I am sure he will be rejoiced with 
the rest of us if the will be found, which it is 
sure to be,” said Mr. Allston, buttoning up his 
overcoat, and drawing on his riding gloves. 

“There is no question of that, sir,” replied 
Frank Yellott, quietly, while in his heart he 
hoped Mr. Allston would break his neck going 
home that night. 

Father Jannison took dinner with Lucia, who 
presided at the head of the table, which she had 
not done since the dreadful day of her loss; he 
was glad to see her begin bearing her cross so 


367 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 

bravely and enduringly; he was glad that Mrs. 
Frith still remained a guest at “Haylands;” 
and, notwithstanding the tumult his mind was 
in about the lost will, he entertained them all 
with accounts of the weddings and funerals he 
had had at St. Inigoes lately, so few at any time 
as to be events, and gave L,ucia news from the 
convent, and her old teacher Sister Angelica, 
which interested her greatly, leading her 
thoughts away, for the time being, from her 
great grief. 

But not a word about the lost will; time 
enough for that, he thought, and begged Frank 
Yellott not to let a hint of it reach her ears. 


3 68 


ZCL&’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER IX. 

EXTRACTS FROM LUCIA’S JOURNAL. 

Three weeks dead! It seems impossible; and 
I sometimes think that I am suffering under 
some terrible hallucination — but the silence from 
which comes no response to the cry of my heart, 
the blank sense of loss ever with me, the places 
once filled and brightened by his presence, now 
empty and desolate, bring home to me the sor- 
rowful fulness of reality. O Guardy ! but for 
knowing that you exist on that other and better 
shore, and that somewhere in that peaceful 
“Land of the living” you are enjoying the de- 
velopment and rewards of a good and well-spent 
life, I should have nothing to comfort me. Each 
day widens the distance between you — dead! — 
and my grieving heart, even while it brings me 
nearer,' ever nearer to you as you are! * * * 

How strange that I cannot shed tears; and this 
makes me think that tears are not true signs of 
grief, but only its relief. This tearless sorrow is, 
in a manner, like wounds that bleed inwardly, 
not easily cured, while superficial grief, which ex- 
pends itself in weeping and lamentation, is easily 
comforted. I try — oh, so hard! — to bear my 
cross in a Christian spirit; but I fear there is a 
germ of paganism in my heart, for I find myself 
so often sorrowing as those do “who have no 
hope. ’ ’ Mother of Sorrows, let me never forget 
thee in thy supreme anguish on Calvary. * * * 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


369 

They are still searching for the will, but no 
vestige of it can be found, except a note made 
hurriedly on the blank leaf of the overseer’s ac- 
count-book, in my dear Guardy’s own handwrit- 
ing, to this effect: “This morning I signed my 
will in the presence of Mr. Allston and three 
other honest witnesses, and trust that I have de- 
vised my worldly possessions justly. ’ ’ That was 
all. 

Frank Yellott is away. 

Monday. — I met Bligh to-day on my way to 
the school-house. He stopped me, and, in his 
blunt way, asked me if “the master’s will was 
yet found?” I told him that it had not been 
found up to Saturday night. Then he said: 

“Miss Lucia, maybe I’ve been a-havin’ hard 
thoughts about that will, and I’m bound to speak 
’em out. I didn’t like to tell what I’ve got to 
tell to them lawyers, for it’s their way to make 
mountains out of mole-hills, and hang a fellow 
before he can twist round to see what’s the mat- 
ter; so I thought I’d speak out to you, knowing 
it would be safe to do it; but I hate to, after all, 
Miss, fearing it may give you some hurt.” 

“What is it, Bligh? Whatever you may confide 
to me will be sacred; and as to hurt — well, never 
mind that,” I replied, feeling as if nothing else 
could ever have power to hurt me again. 

“Well, then, Miss, I’ll tell you. The night 
the master lay dead, old Bob, the under man- 
ager, he was coinin’ along to the 1 great 
house,’ most heart-broke at the awful news some 
of the scared niggers had carried To his cabin, 
and all at once he sees a licht in the library, and 
he stepped along easy, for he said he was afeard 
24 


37 ° 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


you was in there, and might be frichtened if you 
heard a strange step; but when he got past one 
window without looking in, he thought he’d 
look in the other when he got to it, for he saw 
by the light shining out that the curtains must 
be pushed back, which was so. He stopped aiid 
looked in; and there, Miss Lucia, — I hope it 
won’t hurt you, lady, — there was Mister Frank, 
a- turnin’ over and readin’ the master’s papers, 
openin’ of his desks, and rummagin’ over every- 
thing. It didn’t luik well, for the master wasn’t 
yet cauld; and now since the will’s lost, and I 
come to think it over, it looks worse. That’s 
all; and I beg pardon, Miss, if I’ve hurt you 
any way.” 

I did not know what to say; a sick feeling 
came over me; the suspicion suggested to my 
mind was frightful. Why should Frank Yellott 
want to destroy his uncle’s will? I could not 
conceive any motive for such a base act. It 
would have been equally to his advantage to pre- 
serve it, in prospect of our marriage at some 
future day. It seemed — without apparent motive 
— his having done so was simply impossible — in 
fact, the most improbable thing in the world — 
yet it looked badly. Why should he have gone 
prying into those private papers, and his uncle 
just dead? It certainly looked badly — but then 
what was the actual harm beyond that fact? I 
rejected utterly the suspicion of his destroying or 
secreting the will. I felt instinctively that he 
was innocent; but I wish he had not gone there 
that night. 

“Bligh,” I said at last, u you must not repeat 
this. You know that negroes are apt to imagine 
things, and old Bob was in great distress and ex- 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


37 * 


citement; besides, you know lie has the reputa- 
tion of being a seer, and it wouldn’t do for him 
not to have something wonderful to relate here- 
after about that night. He may have seen Mr. 
Yellott in the library, locking up loose papers 
and things, but I’m sure there was nothing else 
in it.” 

“I’ll do as you say, Miss Lucia,” answered 
Bligh; “but the master used to say that Bob had 
the clearest head and more hard common sense 
than any uneddicated man, black or white, he 
ever saw. If it had been one of the other 
niggers, now, I’d ha’ put no faith in it, an’ 
hushed it up at once.” 

“You must do that now, Bligh. It will not 
be respectful to the dead master’s memory, or to 
me, to allow such things to be talked of,” I said. 

“I’ll put a stopper on it, lady; but, my certie, 
I can’t help havin’ my own thoughts. I aint 
forgot them pears,” muttered Bligh, in a dogged 
tone. 

He meant no disrespect to me, and I knew 
how hard it was for him to get anything out of 
that hard Scotch head of his that had once 
entered it, so I said: “Thanks, old friend. You 
know it can harm no one to remain silent, even 
should the will never be found.” 

“It won’t, won’t it?” he exclaimed. “Miss 
Lucia, I tell you the worst thing that could 
happen would be for the estate to fall into the 
hands of the Yellotts, as it will if that docky- 
ment aint found. And then, lady, what in the 
name of God ’s to become of you!” 

“Me!” I asked — “what do you mean? But, 
indeed, Bligh, I cannot discuss these matters 
with you, old and faithful servant as you are. 


372 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


Meanwhile, have no fears about me, — I am 
under the protection of the Father of the or- 
phans, and of the Blessed Mother of His divine 
Son. I am not afraid.” 

“That’s very good in its way,” muttered 
Bligli; “but the gude God helps only them as 
helps themselves first. I tell you what, lady, 
if this estate gets into bad hands there’ll be the 
de’il to pay; the niggers have got wind of the 
trouble a’ ready, and are laying their heads to- 
gether for mischief. ’ ’ 

“I can’t help it — God help us all, I can’t 
help it! — but you must not speak again on this 
subject,” I said, “for while I respect the honesty 
of your intention, I must not forget my relations 
with the Yellotts, nor must you.” 

“The further kin, the better friend; but I’ll 
hold my tongue as lang as I can, gin I have to 
bite it until it bleeds; and any way, happen what 
will, Miss Lucia, count on me. You was the 
master’s care, and for his sake you’re mine now 
till death,” said Bligli, with a quaver in his 
harsh voice. 

I was deeply touched, and held out my hand 
to the old man, who grasped it for an instant, 
then left me abruptly without another word.* * * 

There seems to be trouble approaching — it 
seems to fill the air. I don’t know what it may 
be, but I feel it as I do the approach of a thunder- 
storm hours before we see it. An unrest per- 
vades my mental life, a sense of expectancy 
which perturbs me, as planets yet invisible 
affect others whose orbits they are approach- 
ing. I have but one shelter where I find rest, 
and that is at the feet of Mary at the Cross: in 
that centre all is calm; in that abyss of mercy 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


373 


all my woes seem swallowed up in the supreme 
woes that were endured for my sake. There I 
can trust, and cling with a trust stronger than 
death; there only is my desolation cheered, and 
strength given me to endure. The blood of 
Jesus! the tears of Mary! the crucifixion of her 
soul! the crucifixion of His body! the union of 
this bitter duality of suffering by the most sacred 
of all human ties! how can I despair when I 
contemplate so supreme a sacrifice, a woe so 
complete? * * * 

Thursday. — To-day Father Jannison and Mr. 
Allston came to see me. The lawyer, a grave, 
thoughtful man, eminent in his profession, was 
extremely kind; there was a gentleness and 
sympathy in his manner, inexpressibly soothing 
to my irritated nerves. My dear Father Janni- 
son, as he ever is, was truly like a father, but I 
noticed that his kind face wore a disturbed and 
troubled look, and wondered if Bligh had gone 
to him with old Bob’s story. After a few min- 
utes spent in commonplace conversation, Mr. 
Allston informed me that my guardian’s will 
could not be found, after a most diligent search; 
that he had even procured the services of an ex- 
pert from Baltimore, but all to no avail. The 
man made intelligent suggestions, it is true, but 
the closest investigation had failed of its object. 
“And I came this morning, Miss Lucia, to in- 
form you that the orphans’ court have decided 
that my good friend Brooke died intestate. I 
have done my best, my dear,” continued Mr. 
Allston, with a sharp gleam in his steel-blue 
eyes, which made them look almost white under 
his shaggy black eyebrows. “ I know there was 


374 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


a will by which one-half the estate, a magnifi- 
cent legacy, was devised to yon. I copied that 
will from notes furnished by my friend, and I 
saw him sign it, and saw the witnesses affix 
their names to it; but it has disappeared mysteri- 
ously, and the law requires legal proof that it 
existed, and that proof cannot be given unless 
the will is produced. My oath, Father Janni- 
son’ s oath, and the oaths of the witnesses about 
the will, all go for nothing, so far as the carry- 
ing out of the provisions of that will (which I 
have in Brooke’s own handwriting, in a dupli- 
cate copy, unsigned of course), is concerned. 
It cannot be produced, and my firm belief is 
that there’s been some knavery about it. You 
know, Father Jannison, that Allan Brooke was 
not a man given to making wills and then tear- 
ing them up, or burning them, without rhyme or 
reason.” 

“No,” answered Father Jannison; “his ac- 
tions were all positive. He weighed everything 
carefully, and his mind once made up, I do not 
think that any earthly power could have moved 
him from his purpose.” Then, turning to me, 
he took my hand, and looking into my face with 
a kind and pitying expression, continued: 
“Lucia, my child, this will come hard upon 
you; but, in a temporal point of view, it will not 
matter a great deal, as you are engaged to be 
married to Frank Yellott. To be sure, you will 
not feel quite so independent” — 

At that moment there came into my heart a 
positive assurance that Frank Yellott and my- 
self would never be more to each other than we 
were then; there came over me that same feeling 
of repulsion towards him that I had experienced 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


375 


several times already, a repulsion without rhyme 
or reason; one of those mysterious sigjns of the 
assertion of the inner life, over which we have 
no control. I could not speak, and Mr. Allston 
burst out with: “Oh, yes, that’s all fair as far as 
it goes, but it’s not the thing my poor friend in- 
tended. His designs were far otherwise, and it 
pains me bitterly to think they can’t be carried 
out, now that he is in his grave. I declare I 
hate the law sometimes; but, Miss Lucia, my 
dear, I’m glad from my heart that things will go 
right with you if the will is lost, and I congratu- 
late you on your approaching marriage.” 

“I thank you, Mr. Allston, and my dear 
Father Jannison, for all your goodness and kind 
wishes, but I do not wish to leave either of you 
under a false impression, lest, hereafter, you ac- 
cuse me of caprice. My marriage with Mr. 
Yellott is altogether uncertain, and, placed as 
we are now, I doubt if it ever takes place,” I 
answered. 

“Lucia, Lucia, my child!” said Father Janni- • 
son, “keep down that pride, — ah, I know it so 
well! Don’t stand in the light of your own hap- 
piness, and forego the noble opportunity of help- 
ing a soul, because — well, my child, — because 
Frank Yellott is rich and you poor.” 

“No, my father,” I answered; “ that consid- 
eration, however much it might sting my pride, 
should never influence me in a matter like this. 
There are other things, which I cannot now ex- 
plain, which may do so, however.” 

“But, Miss Lucia,” said Mr. Allston, resum- 
ing his hard, legal tones, “you must take into 
consideration that in case this marriage should 
be broken off there is nothing, positively noth- 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


376 

ing, left for you to depend upon, unless you 
have something from your mother; you will be 
penniless, Miss Lucia, and I should like to know 
what’s to become of you in a struggle with life?” 

“I have nothing, Mr. Allston,” I answered; 
“but, penniless or not, I must be governed by my 
own conscientious sense of right and duty, and 
the advice received from my dear guardian on 
the subject. I have no fears. The very thought 
of struggle revives me, just as running in a high 
wind used to do when I was a child. I have 
youth, health, a liberal education and large hope, 
as well as energy of will; then, too, I have a 
higher and better trust than all these, which is 
‘both sure and steadfast.’ ” 

“Bravo, bravo, my dear!” exclaimed Mr. All- 
ston, taking both my hands in his friendly grasp; 
“that’s true south-land pluck; I like it. You 
have the qualities of a heroine, and of a brave, 
good woman, and they’ll pull you through what- 
ever difficulties may come. I do not know Mr. 
Yellott, — that is, not much, — but maybe, some 
things considered, you do right not to be hasty.” 

“The estate goes to the Yellotts, I suppose?” 

I inquired, as a matter of course, but without 
the least sentiment of caring who inherited it; 
for, as I said before, nothing hurts me now; I 
am numb and frozen as to all outward things. 

“Everything! They get everything, and 
are residuary legatees into the bargain, hair and 
hide, tooth and nail; there’s nothing that the 
LAW doesn’t give them,” said Mr. Allston, stuff- 
ing his hands into his pockets, and looking irate * 
as he stood before me on the rug. 

“Knowing that,” I said, half amused by the 
grave lawyer’s vehemence, “I have a small favor 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


377 


to ask, Mr. Allston. Can you tell me what was 
done with my guardian’s watch and chain that 
night?” 

“Yes, certainly, Miss Lucia; it was placed in 
a private drawer of the escritoire in the library, 
and I have the key here in my po.cket,” he 
answered. “What about it?” 

“I will tell you, Mr. Allston, if Father Janni- 
son and yourself will come with me into the 
library,” I said, rising. 

When we got into the library, Mr. Allston un- 
locked the escritoire and placed the watch and 
chain in my hands. How silent the once busily 
clicking thing was, with its hand' pointing to 
the hour of twelve, just where it stopped that 
dreadful night ! It reminded me of something 
out of which the soul had gone. It used to be 
his way, just before he said “good-night,” to 
wind up his watch and regulate it by mine. But 
that night there was no “ good-night,” no wind- 
ing up the watch ! there was nothing but that 
voice singing its sublime anthem of fyope in the 
“Valley of the shadow of death!” Oh, my 
Guardy, my one true friend ! But Mr. Allston 
reminded me, by a little cough, of what I came 
there for. I slipped the little gold key of the 
panel that covers my mother’s portrait from the 
chain, — it looked like a small trinket, so cun- 
ningly was it wrought, — then, standing upon a 
chair, I unlocked and slid back the panel. 

Mr. Allston exclaimed, “Good heaven! who 
is that?” as if a living face were looking down 
upon him. Father Jannison already knew its 
history, and when placed there. 

“This,” I said, “ is the only thing that I wish 
to claim as my own. It is my mother’s picture, 
and was my dear guardian’s secret.” 


37 8 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


“Do you wish to remove it, Miss Lucia?” 
asked Mr. Allston, unable to remove his eyes 
from the dazzling vision of such rare loveliness. 

“No — at least, not yet — but I wish to keep 
the key in my own possession until such time as 
my plans for the future are shaped. No one 
knows of its being here, except Father Jannison 
and myself, and it can therefore be no one’s 
loss. ’ ’ 

“Miss Lucia, that key is yours to all intents 
and purposes. According to Law, I am aiding 
and abetting a felony in giving it to you; but 
according to equity and the principles of eternal 
justice, it is yours. I assume all the responsi- 
bility there is,” said Mr. Allston, gravely and 
kindly. 

“Thanks. I only accept it to guard my 
n\other’s picture until I settle on something. 
The portrait was made sacred by the tender, 
faithful, forgiving love that placed it there, and 
kept it veiled from every eye except his own; 
and I do not wish it, now that he is dead, to be- 
come an object of comment and vulgar curiosity. 
I was unaware of its being here until the very 
night he died. He told me the history of his 
life, and showed it to me, about an hour before 
his death,” I answered, as calmly as I could. 

‘ ‘ Good heaven ! ’ ’ exclaimed Mr. Allston, 
raising himself up on his toes and bringing his 
heels down upon the floor, with a sudden force 
that made his spurs jingle and the planks trem- 
ble, “was there ever a case like this before? and 
no help for it, because you are not of the same 
blood as the man who would have shed his own 
to save even a hair of your head from hurt? 
What is to be done, Father Jannison?” 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


379 


“Humanly speaking, my friend, we have done 
all that is possible, and we must now leave the 
affair in the hands of the Supreme Judge of all. 
We are hemmed in and circumvented by events 
which appear inscrutable, and are like blind men 
astray in the desert; but the safety of our cause 
lies in the hands of Eternal Justice. Let us 
trust Him who notes even the fall of a sparrow 
to the ground.” 

“Ahem! well — yes — that is all right accord- 
ing to the principles of Christian ethics, but it 
isn’t law. I wish to Jupiter Congress would ap- 
point me to codify the laws, with the power to 
modify, also. We want rules of equity , sir, 
which would be beyond the reach of being tam- 
pered with by judge or jury; rules by which the 
justice of statutes could be tested, and the cor- 
ruption of courts exposed,” replied Mr. Allston, 
bringing down his heels with another snap and 
jingle; then turning to me, looked with curious 
scrutiny at the amused and interested expression 
of my countenance, for I was diverted at his 
fiery indignation, which seemed ludicrous to me, 
who had never heard law and equity discussed 
before, and was, therefore, unacquainted with 
results which the grave old lawyer had been bat- 
tling with throughout his professional life. 
Taking my hand in both of his, he said: 

“Miss Lucia, my dear, don’t be hasty in your 
decisions, I beg of you; look probabilities 
squarely in the face before you plunge yourself 
into untried plans. Heroics, my dear young 
lady, do better in books than in real life. For a 
young and beautiful woman to enter into the 
struggle of life alone, is a desperate ordeal. 
Throw that lovely, rose-hued camellia into the 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


380 

yellow, turbulent river, and see what will come 
of it ! I do not like to think of it at all. What 
chance would you have, fighting against fate 
with these delicate, slender hands and your sen- 
sitive organization ? ’ ’ 

“Providence is stronger than fate, Mr. Alls- 
ton; Providence is divine; fate is human, and I 
have Providence to guard and guide me,” I an- 
swered quickly. “Therefore, I have no fears, 
happen what may, knowing that the divine 
Providence of God leads us by ways we know 
not, but which are the right ways for all who 
place their trust in Him. But I thank you all 
the same for your warm-hearted sympathy.” 

“ But your physical life, my child — you who 
have never known an anxious moment, or had a 
care for the future ! Why, the effort at self-sup- 
port would kill you,” he answered. 

“Dear Mr. Allston, you don’t know me; you 
have no idea what iron energy and will I have 
covered up under the softness of my outer life: 
it is the ‘steel hand in a velvet glove,’ and I 
shall be able to overcome all difficulties that 
may obstruct my path with it. Other women 
who were delicately nurtured have done the 
same — why not I?” 

“ Your eyes seem to look as if you might, sure 
enough,” said Mr. Allston, gravely. “But I 
must be going. When will Mr. Yellott be back 
from Baltimore?” 

“In a few days, I think. He has gone, you 
know, to meet his mother and sisters, who are 
on their way to ‘ Haylands,’ ” I answered. 

“ Hum ! ahem !” ejaculated the lawyer, draw- 
ing on his gauntlets, while he muttered: “They 
scent the game from afar, but it would have 


V zo&’s DAUGHTER. 381 

looked better had they waited until things were 
settled.” 

u Things are settled, Mr. Allston!” I ob- 
served. 

“Yes, in a way; but they were not settled 
when Mr. Yellott went north,” he answered. 

A servant came in with a waiter of refresh- 
ments arranged by Maum Chloe, who would 
have felt that the family was disgraced had a 
guest departed from “ Haylands ” without par- 
taking of such hospitality, or at least having it 
offered. 

“ If you’ll excuse me, my good friends, I will 
only swallow a glass of wine, and snatch two or 
three sandwiches to eat as I run; for I have an 
engagement, and fear that I shall be behind 
time — I have stayed here so much longer than I 
expected. Thanks, Miss Lucia; no more. I 
will just say good-bye to you and Father Janni- 
son, and return the watch and chain to the 
escritoire — so — now, Miss Lucia, here is the key; 
I’ll lay it inside the bronze clock. As to the 
other key, keep it. Now, once more good-bye,” 
said Mr. Allston, shaking hands with Father 
Jannison and myself, who sat there in that 
memory-haunted room, almost silent, after he 
left. 

Dear and faithful priest of God ! how earnestly 
he sought to comfort me ; with what gentle dig- 
nity and authority he admonished me ! with what 
fatherly tenderness he bore with my sorrow ! 
But I could not make him understand my senti- 
ments towards Frank Yellott, because being un- 
definable to myself, they seemed unreasoning to 
him. He thinks me capricious and proud, and, 
I fear, also bitter. But he gave it up at last, and 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


382 

began to talk on ordinary topics. But presently, 
after a pause in our conversation, he asked me, 
looking full into my eyes: 

“Lucia, my child, answer me one question 
frankly, if you please. Has any suspicion ever 
entered your mind that your guardian’s will may 
have been tampered with by some one?” 

“No, Father. I have not the slightest suspi- 
cion of any such thing,” I answered, positively. 
“Who was there to tamper with it, and for what? 
No, I believe my dear guardian destroyed the 
will himself, intending to make another some- 
what different; but the inexorable and sudden 
fiat went forth, and his human plans and hopes 
were frustrated.” 

Father Jannison said nothing more, and I 
asked nothing, for I felt sick at heart; but I 
thought that he looked greatly relieved. A few 
minutes afterwards he gave me his blessing and 
went away; and I returned to the library after 
seeing him off, and throwing myself wearily into 
my low, cushioned chair, where I always used 
to sit, somewhere near him, when we — my Guar- 
dy and I — were there together, I began to think 
of my industrial school, and of the poor children, 
who were improving morally and religiously to 
my entire satisfaction. What was to become of 
them if I should really leave them? — what would 
become of them if I remained,- as I could only do, 
as Frank Yellott’s wife? What would become 
of my beautiful young quadroon Daphne, — and 
my lissome, handsome, bronze-brown Calliope — 
“worth their weight in gold,” I once heard 
Frank Yellott say. Suppose, just suppose I 
marry Frank Yellott, would he allow me to go 
on with my plans as my dear Guardy did? 


zoi’s DAUGHTER. 


383 

Something assures me not. A distrust comes 
like a shadow, flitting through my heart; it is 
only a shadow, but it chills me and makes me 
afraid. But how senseless I am to dwell upon 
evils which may never happen ! Why — even 
should I go away — doubt that Mrs. Yellott and 
her daughters will continue the good work so 
successfully organized ? I am growing unchari- 
table, egotistical and hard. 

I roused myself and went up to my room ; as 
I passed through the wide upper hall, I thought 
I heard the sound of moaning; it came from the 
closed room of my dead friend. I opened the 
door softly, and in the dim light saw the form 
of Maum Chloe kneeling by the bedside, her 
arms thrown across the bed, and her head rest- 
ing on the pillow that his had last pressed. 
There she knelt, moaning and weeping piteously. 

0 the old, old cry of Rachel, mourning for her 
children ! — the solemn undertone of the world’s 
grief ever, ever echoing since the death of Abel, 
growing stronger and stronger as the world grows 
older — how sad it is ! As I stood looking on, my 
own loss came like a great wave rolling over me, 
breaking down the unnatural calm that had kept 
my heart ice-bound for days and days, and tears 
flowed once more from my eyes. I closed the 
door noiselessly, and going into my own room, 

1 sank upon the floor before the image of Our 
Lady of Sorrows like a tired child, and wept my 
fill, offering my loss and desolation, my griefs 
and tears, with hers to her Divine Son. 


3*4 


zoic’s daughter. 


CHAPTER X. 
eucia’s journal continued. 

Wednesday. — The Yellotts came last night 
about twelve o’clock. I heard nothing of the 
bustle of their arrival, having fallen asleep soon 
after I retired — the first sound, wholesome sleep 
I have had for weeks. Maum Chloe was stand- 
ing by my bedside when I opened my eyes, re- 
garding me with a sorrowful countenance. 

“They’s come, honey,” she said; “better get 
up, I reckon; it’s nigh breakfast time; but if I 
was you I’d have my breakfast up here.” 

“Oh, no, Maummy! that would not do at all; 
besides, why should I do so? When did they 
come?” I inquired, a little disturbed by she 
sudden announcement. 

“’Bout twelve, I reckon. The packet cotch 
a head win’ at the mouf of the river, and it kep’ 
’em late. I airit seen none of ’em; but plenty of 
orders come flyin’ down to me dis mornin’, bout 
this, that and t’other,” grumbled Maum Chloe, 
with just a little toss of her head. I know how 
much she dislikes the Yellotts, so I took no 
notice, but went on dressing. “I thought,” she 
added, “that I’d come up and tell you, honey; I 
dunno how it is, but it ’pears to me thar’s some- 
thin’ or other dark, I dunno what, come with 
them. I feel it in my marrow — you mind now, 
Miss Eucy, what I says!” 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 385 

“I’m sorry you feel so badly, dear oldMaummy: 
you must have some of that strengthening cor- 
dial Dr. Bean left for you, and let me rub your 
lame shoulder to-night,” I said, soothingly. 

“It’s my heart as is sick, chile. Dr. Bean’s 
stuff aint a gwine to do me any good; it’s parst 
his skill to help me thar,” said the old woman, 
sorrowfully; “but I thanks you, phoney, just the 
same. I must go now, for they’s all ready to 
come down to their breakfast.” 

The breakfast bell rang, and I went down with 
a chill at my heart. I wondered if Maum 
Chloe’s superstitious presentiments could have 
given me that heavy, stony sensation. My 
courage sank lower and lower as I advanced 
towards the breakfast room; and I stood a mo- 
ment at the door, my heart beating quickly, 
dreading to enter, yet knowing how inevitable 
was the meeting from which I shrank. Girding 
up my courage, I determined to be calm, and 
went in. Mrs. Yellott, clothed in the deepest 
mourning, a moving mass of crape and bomba- 
zine, sat at the head of the table; Frank at the 
foot; the two girls, Mamie and Touise, on the 
right and left of their mother. Frank was the 
first to see me, and coming forward, shook hands, 
inquiring in conventional phrase after my health. 
Mrs. Yellott arose, with her handkerchief to her 
eyes, and held out her hand, into which I placed 
mine, only to have it barely touched and dropped 
instantly. The girls, well-grown and handsome, 
both arrayed in the deepest and blackest mourn- 
ing, stared, and merelv bowed; then I took the 
vacant place at the table, about midway between 
the head and foot. 

“You scarcely expected to find us here this 
25 


3 86 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


morning,” Frank observed, after a few moments’ 
awkward silence. 

“I did not know when to expect you, the 
packet is always so uncertain. I only heard that 
you had arrived in the night, when I awoke a 
half hour ago. I fear you found but a cheerless 
welcome,” I returned. 

“No,” he replied, “the fires only wanted a 
little poking up to make them burn brightly; 
then, you see, we all knew the way to the pantry, 
where we found plenty of everything nice to eat, 
which we were glad to get, being half starved.” 

Mrs. Yellott took the handkerchief from her 
eyes, but there was not the trace of a tear to be 
seen. Her proud, worldly face had changed but 
little since I last saw her, and I thought she 
looked coldly at me. 

“We should have felt badly, Miss d’Olivieras, 
had we come to the house of a stranger and found 
no one to welcome us; but one doesn’t expect 
much ceremony in one’s own home,” said Mrs. 
Yellott. “Of course we missed my poor dear 
brother, and it is a sad thing for me to be 
obliged to take his place and sit here at the head 
of the table, under such sad circumstances.” 
Then she covered her face again with her black- 
bordered handkerchief. 

Why should I have felt as I did? Why shrink 
and wince to hear her assert her position? I do 
not know why , but I did feel stung to be so un- 
ceremoniously set aside the very first day. I 
made no reply. I did not know what to say. 
My heart was full of ache, and a subtle sense of 
being unwelcome in that house, so long my 
home, crept into it. There was also a very ap- 
parent restraint in Frank’s manner. But I 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 38 7 

roused my will to choke back all these morbid 
imaginations; they were egotistical and unchari- 
table. The Yellotts are almost strangers to me; 
what right have I to expect other behavior from 
them — except Frank ? The silence was irk- 
some, and turning to Frank, I made some in- 
quiries about their trip, just to break it. 

“The trip was pleasant enough until we got 
to the mouth of the river; then the wind shifted 
dead ahead, and we were tacking about until 
nearly midnight,” he answered. 

“It was perfectly horrid,” added Mrs. Yellott; 
“I was sea-sick from the time we left Baltimore: 
and I’d rather be jolted to pieces in the old 
rickety stages over the abominable corduroy 
roads, than come by the packet again. We were 
shut up in a close little cabin, scarcely bigger 
than this table, with a red-hot stove in the mid- 
dle of it, and such awful smells whenever the 
packet — what do they call it, Frank?” 

“Tacked about. The smell was nothing but 
bilge water, which sailors say is very wholesome. 
It is not as agreeable, however, as the perfumes 
of Arabv the blest,”' he replied, laughing. 

“It smelt exactly like the horrid water we 
drank at that Spa in Germany,” said Louise 
Yellott, with a look of infinite disgust. 

After breakfast Mrs. Yellott summoned the 
house servants to her presence to inaugurate .her 
reign as mistress of “Hay lands” by assigning to 
each one his and her tasks, and giving her orders 
for the day. Frank was called out to see a 
strange man with a most repulsive countenance, 
who was standing at the open hall door, as I 
went through on my way to my room. The 
Misses Yellott had gone up to superintend the 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


388 

unpacking of their trunks; their room door, open- 
ing into the upper hall, was wide open, and 
they were talking loudly. These words fell 
upon my ear : 

“Oh, how I do hate mourning! If we could 
only have got the money without being obliged 
to wear it.” 

“That would have been splendid! Now, all 
the beautiful things we bought in Europe will be 
out of fashion before we can take off black. It’s 
horrid!” said the other. 

They spoke loudly; I could not avoid hearing 
them, and I quickened my steps to get out of the 
reach of their voices. Only themselves! — only 
themselves! No word of sorrow for the great 
and good heart lying under the snow over 
yonder, to whom they owed all; only selfish 
regrets for the disagreeable necessity of being 
obliged to appear to mourn his loss. 

I threw my cloak around me, and drawing the 
hood over my head, went away to my school. 
The children were all assembled, and in quite an 
excitement. When I questioned them, they told 
me that Mr. Frank and a strange man had been 
there, who had asked their ages, what they 
could do, what they were being taught; and the 
man told Mr. Frank that Daphne was worth the 
whole lot. 

So she was; she was the oldest of them all, 
her age fifteen. She was intelligent, quick, and 
eager for knowledge. Her figure, was slender 
and lissom, and her olive face had all the per- 
fection of the Grecian type of beauty. My pur- 
pose was to have her educated abroad; but now 
— what does all this mean — and, above all, this 
feeling of distrust, almost like the shadows of 


ZOI$’S DAUGHTER. 


389 

strong presentiments? Why did not Frank wait 
until I came ? Who was this strange man — a 
coarse, brutal-looking creature, with stooping 
shoulders and a cruel, furtive look in his eyes — 
what right had he to come there setting a value 
on Daphne ? 

I saw but little of the Yellotts for the next 
day or so; they were occupied with their own 
affairs. Mrs. Yellott was indisposed, and we 
only met at the table, and the meals passed with 
but feeble attempts at conversation. Frank went 
about a great deal on horseback; and the strange 
man who had given me so many uneasy moments, 
did not come back. I intended asking Frank 
something about his going to the school-house, 
but he avoids me; he evidently shrinks from 
anything like a confidential interview with me. 
He does not forgive me yet, I fear, for thwarting 
his wishes after his uncle’s death, about our 
marriage, and the delay I insisted on. But I am 
in the same mind, and my trust is in God and 
our holy Mother. 

Monday Night. — When I came into the 
house about noon to-day I heard Mrs. Yellott’ s 
voice in high and sharp altercation with some 
one. It was Maum Chloe to whom she was 
talking — and the old woman, unused to such ex- 
citement, was trembling, partly from anger, but 
most from feebleness. She told Mrs. Yellott 
that she was “no longer able to be house- 
keeper at 1 Haylands,’ she was old and worn out, 
needed rest, and wanted to live quietly in her 
own cabin.’’ 

“Don’t put on airs, Chloe, because my poor 
brother was foolish enough to give you your 
freedom. You never did like me or my chil- 


39 ° 


ZOI$’S DAUGHTER. 


dren, and that' s the reason; I don’t believe you 
are one bit sick. Any way, such pretences 
won’t go down with me, and I can tell you it 
will be worse for you if you give trouble; so I 
want to hear no more nonsense,” said Mrs. 
Yellott. 

“Indeed, Mrs. Yellott, — pardon me — but 
Mauin Chloe has been very feeble ever since — 
that is, for some two months past,” I said, com- 
ing from the fire, where I had been warming my 
feet. I could not help it; I knew it seemed offi- 
cious, but I had to speak, seeing the strong 
without ruth against the weak, and knowing 
that the old woman there, worn out by faithful 
services and the blow her affectionate heart had 
sustained in the death of her kind and indulgent 
master, was defenceless, and really unable to 
continue her superintendence of the house. 

“Thanks, Miss D’Olivieras, but I think I 
understand Mamn Chloe, having known her ever 
since I was born,” Mrs. Yellott answered sharply. 

“ Perhaps you are not aware that her sight is 
failing?” I said in a low tone. 

“No, ’taint, Miss Lucy; I sees well enuff, but 
I aint strong; somethin’s broke in here — some 
of them strings that holded me up,” said Maum 
Chloe hastily, laying her hand upon her heart — 
in a hurry, though, to deny that her sight was 
failing in the least. 

“There, Miss D’Olivieras! you hear what she 
says herself, and the rest of it is all imagination. 
Come now, Maum Chloe, let us be friends; you 
serve me, and I’ll be a good mistress to you,” 
said Mrs. Yellott, calming down. 

“Look here, Miss’ Yellott, doesn’t you know 
as how he leff me free? I don’t b’long to no- 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


391 


body now; you ask Father Jannison and Mars’ 
Allston, and see if he didn’t?” said Mauin 
Chloe, drawing herself up, while the almost ex- 
tinct fire of her eyes flashed angrily. 

“ I dbn’t care for that a snap. You’ve got to 
serve me, or I’ll put the law in force against you, 
and drive you not only from ‘Haylands,’ but out 
of Virginia. Free niggers are not allowed to 
remain in slave States except by special act. 
That’s the law. So now you see which side 
your bread is buttered, and you’d better be wise 
and not provoke me. Go now, and see about 
making a charlotte-russe for dessert, and a 
mince pie or two; the young ladies are particu- 
larly fond of this sort of things.” 

Maum Chloe made no answer, but went sul- 
lenly away, heaving a deep sigh, like a child 
who has sobbed itself to sleep. I turned to go 
into the library for the book my guardian was 
reading to me that last sorrowful day, to finish 
the poem where he left off, as .if my grieved 
heart would be drawn nearer to him by this link 
between now and then; but before I reached the 
door I heard a low, sharp cry, and saw Mrs. 
Yellott suddenly drop into a chair, which fortu- 
nately stood close to her, her hand pressed on 
her side, and her face wearing the pallor of 
death. I ran to her and rested her head against 
my breast; I was startled as I looked down at 
her still white face, to see, for the first time, a 
marvellous likeness to her dead brother — I say 
marvellous, because no two faces could have 
been more unlike. I soon discovered that she 
was not unconscious, from her efforts to speak. 
I applied my vinaigrette to her nostrils; she 
revived slightly, and gasped “Vial — in my 


392 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


pocket — ten drops — wine — glass — water.” I 
felt in the pocket of her dress, got the vial, 
dropped ten drops of the pale, pink fluid into a 
wine-glass full of water, and held it to her 
white, quivering lips. She swallowed it with 
difficulty, but the effect was almost instantane- 
ous; the pallor disappeared from her face, and 
in a few seconds she was able to stand, and, ex- 
cept a very weary expression in hex eyes and 
around her mouth, she looked as well as usual. 

“It was a sudden cramp in my side. It is 
nothing serious, you know, Miss D’Oli vieras; I 
am very thankful to you, however, for your 
timely assistance, for, although these attacks 
are not dangerous, they are excessively painful,” 
said Mrs. Yellott, with a little forced laugh. 

“Had you not better go and lie down, Mrs. 
Yellott? I will be happy to attend to anything 
I can for you,” I observed. 

“Oh no; thanks! not for the world to-day. 
You know the negroes would take advantage of 
it, for you must know there’s quite a trial of 
strength between us these few days, and I want 
to make them understand that I am mistress 
here, and do not intend being trifled with. My 
poor brother, ” here Mrs. Yellott’ s black-bordered 
handkerchief was whisked out and applied to 
her eyes, “my poor brother spoiled them, he was 
so good and so indulgent to every one; my only 
wonder is that everything did not go to ruin. 
By-the-way, Miss D’Oli vieras, one thing has 
struck me as very remarkable, and you’ll pardon 
me, I trust, for referring to it. How strange it 
is that, owing my poor brother so much, you 
have not put on mourning for him?” Again 
Mrs. Yellott put up her handkerchief. 


393 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 

Mourning! I had not thought of the outer 
habiliments of woe; my grief was too deep, my 
heart so full of mourning that I had utterly for- 
gotten these exterior signs of it, and what the 
world required of me. Why, at that moment I 
had on a dark cashmere dress — almost black — a 
lace collar fastened with a malachite brooch 
which he had given with his dear love for a 
birthday present years ago while we were abroad, 
and the hood of my cloak was lined with crimson. 
No wonder, with her ideas, that Mrs. Yellott 
should have thought me deficient in respect to 
my benefactor. 

“And,” went on Mrs. Yellott, in her stinging 
way, “although you are not a blood relation, 
Miss D’Oli vieras, still there’s something due the 
memory of my brother from you, to whom he 
was a true benefactor.” 

I was covered with confusion. It did seem 
strange and disrespectful for me to have neglected 
a custom so generally observed, the omission of 
which is looked on by the world as a marked 
disrespect to the memory of a deceased friend; 
and yet — and yet — what use of black robes when 
the heart truly mourns? would it not grieve 
all the same if one were clothed in scarlet or 
cloth of gold ? Bombazine and crape had but 
little significance to me; but the thought of do- 
ing anything which bore the faintest guise of 
disrespect to my best friend shocked me. 

“It was so sudden — I have had no time to 
think,” I said at last; “but I will put on mourn- 
ing; it will be more suitable.” I said no more; 
I felt that I must be reticent with Mrs. Yellott; 
I could no more have spoken to her of my dear 
Guardy, and the deep confiding affection there 


394 


ZOIC’S DAUGHTER. 


was between us, than T could have done to a 
perfect stranger; for she evidently thought I had 
no part in him, no right or title to a single 
heartfelt emotion about him. 

“I’m glad to hear that, Miss d’Oli vieras; it 
will look more respectful,” she answered, as 
she counted carefully a set of large and small 
gold spoons. 

I made no reply, but got to my room as swiftly 
as I could, and locked myself in. “Respectful ! 
What does the woman mean?” I thought, my 
heart in a tempest of rage and bitterness. “Re- 
spectful ! am I a servant, or a dog, that she should 
speak to me in this way of one to save whose life 
I would have laid down my own ? I, the promised 
wife of her son ! — but hold — take thought what 
you are about, Lucia; crush your anger; strangle 
your intolerable scorn; put a halter upon your 
pride, and remember — remember that this woman 
is mistress here now, and you, you are a beggar. ” 
In this self-communing, the sense of it all came 
to me at once. I was no longer betrothed — I 
felt that; I was no longer sought; no longer de- 
ferred to; no longer regarded as the heiress of 
the first and best man in the State; I am simply 
a beggar, homeless and friendless. I had been 
so preoccupied with the great sorrow that had 
come swooping down like a black cloud upon 
my life, that until this moment I had not realized 
the situation; and now — and now it is all so plain. 

I dreamed when I first came to “Haylands” 
that our Holy Mother of Sorrows placed a thorny 
crown upon my head, saying: “Behold the dia- 
dem with which they crowned my Son !” Ah ! 
already, do I seem to feel it ! already does it pierce 
my proud head, and make my haughty heart 
quiver as in a furnace heat ! It will be a bitter 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 


395 


battle; I had been so softly reared, so tenderly led, 
I have had no cares, no thought for the morrow; 
all flattered me, all commended me, while he — 
my Guardy — encompassed me round about with 
a vigilant love, like a beneficent Providence. 
My pride, my fiery temper, my intolerance of 
restraint, has only lain dormant all these years; 
there was nothing to rouse them, to sting them 
into life, and I thought myself healed ! Oh ar- 
rogant soul ! how long hast thou walked in thy 
own strength ! What shall I do? what shall I 
do now that all is crumbling to nothingness 
around me? I dare not — I will not be the slave 
of grovelling passions ! No, O my God ! too 
much do I value the dignity with which Thou 
has invested my poor life by making me in Thy 
image, and giving Thy Son to die for me ! Help 
me ! help me in this my hour of sore distress ! 

So my soul cried out for help this weary, 
weary day. By and by a comparative calm fell 
upon me; I began to think of my relations with 
Frank Yellott. What shall I do? The situation 
is one of great delicacy. He has declared so 
often that his happiness, his very salvation, de- 
pends on my becoming his wife, that I have 
ceased to doubt it: would it not be cruel and un- 
just in me to sacrifice him to my pride? I must 
think. I must take calm counsel with myself. 
I will do nothing hastily. And yet how very 
distant and cold his manner towards me ! He 
is still angry, but must be patient and abide by 
the ordeal I named. I am decided on that point. 

Ah, my “Sorrowful Mother,” how near these 
griefs bring me to thee ! the thought of thee 
sweetens the bitterness of my soul; if I am to 
suffer, and can suffer with thee, it will be well 
with me to the end. 


39 6 


ZO&S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XI. 

CONTINUATION OF LUCIA’S JOURNAL. 

January 3D (Buckrae). — Once more here in 
my old desolate home. All that has passed since 
I saw my dead mother lying there so white and 
beautiful — since I was carried away dumb with 
grief to “Haylands;” all the peaceful days; my 
Guardy’s protecting and ever-indulgent affection; 
everything associated with the events of those 
happy years, appears like a dream from which I 
awake to find myself here, all alone with the sor- 
rowful memories that haunt the place, to grieve 
and wonder at the bitter trials whose sting and 
hurt rouse me all the time to the harsh realities 
of the situation, and sternly dispel the thought 
of beautiful dreams. 

How vividly, at this moment, there comes to 
me the remembrance of a day long, 0I1! so long 
ago, spent in ascending the Alps on the Italian 
side, to the monastery of Mt. St. Bernard, where 
we were to spend the night. Our party was 
small — my Guardy, Miss Jefferson and myself — 
and we traveled in our own conveyance, accom- 
panied by our courier on horseback. We went 
very slowly, that we might stop whenever we 
pleased to gaze at will over the marvellous scenes 
of loveliness spread far and wide over the fair 
plains of Lombardy lying below us, which we 
left with many an expression of heartfelt regret. 
Far in the distance, draped in ethereal loveliness, 


397 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 

and girdling the fair landscape like a mighty 
frame, the grand mountain chain of the Alps 
stretched away seemingly into infinity; below 
us, scattered here and there,, were the storied 
cities, whose origin is lost in mythic fables; here 
like a grand altar of alabaster, its pinnacles and 
statues all gleaming and glittering in the sun- 
shine, stood a marble cathedral, the patient work 
of the ages of faith; dotting the verdant plain on 
this side and that, villages nestled among groves 
of orange and olive trees, in every direction; 
orchards a-flush with blossoms made more Eden- 
like the scene; while streams sparkled here and 
there, gleaming like fantastic traceries of silver. 
The crosses shining upon hundreds of churches; 
the stately castles enclosed in grounds of match- 
less beauty, where nature and art combined to 
form a harmony of picturesque contrasts; the 
monasteries on the mountain sides, and the gray 
crumbling walls of a Carmelite convent where 
St. Bernard was once entertained, and of a Do- 
minican monastery, founded by the illustrious 
Dominic himself, from both of which we heard 
faintly floating upon the air like a musical whis- 
per, the Angelus , while an atmosphere of golden, 
translucent light bathed every object until it all 
looked like a land of vision, charmed the eye. 
Up, up, slowly we journeyed, my dear Guardy 
reading aloud from Dante’s divine epic, or from 
Tasso’s burning pages, or from Ariosto’s gentle 
strains, as something far or near, celebrated by 
their genius, attracted his attention. Ah! how 
well do I remember the delicious enjoyment of 
our slow, our almost imperceptible ascent in the 
soft sunshine, wrapped in poetic dreams, and 
almost fancying myself in one of Claude Eor- 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


398 

aine’s pictures — it was all so perfect, so heavenly! 
so like my life — so like my life! 

But presently, when the sun disappeared be- 
hind the distant peaks, and when a gray, ghostly 
light began to make everything grow indistinct, 
and we felt the chill of the region of snow we 
were approaching; when the road became rough 
and dangerous, and I saw only grim rocks and 
rugged cliffs all round us and frowning above 
our heads; and when finally I saw the massive, 
gloomy walls of the monastery or hospice loom- 
ing before us, my heart almost cried out with 
fond regrets for the sunlit scenes we had left — ■ 
scenes so fair and beautiful that they tinged the 
imagination with a bewildering glamour, and ex- 
panded the sensuous wings of the inner life with 
an exceeding sense of voluptuous enjoyment ! 
But there, O my God ! how those wild crags, those 
snows, that awful silence, where only the solemn 
whispers of the soul were heard, that gray, shad- 
owy light, suddenly made me feel Thy presence! 
As we entered the great portal of the hospice, a far- 
off sound of music and chanting from the chapel, 
where the monks were celebrating Vespers, met 
us like a benediction. My dear Guardy asked 
permission to go into the chapel, which was 
readily granted, and we gladly followed. Here, 
then on these gloomy heights, in this region of 
snow and silence, I found myself adoring the 
power and majesty of God as I had never done 
before; and as I looked at the humble and saintly 
visages of the monks, in whose hearts — moved 
by a divine impulse of charity — glowed the 
supernatural fires, and shone the true beauty of 
holiness, the contrast between heavenly and 
earthly things, between what we see and the 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


399 


substance of what we hope for, “which eye hath 
not seen, nor the mind of man conceived,” filled 
my soul with sublime aspirations after eternal 
good. 

“Iam sure,” thought I, “if I were to go out- 
side, I should see St. Michael throned upon the 
snowy peaks, — St. Michael, the strong helper, 
the angel of high places ! ” 

The soft beauty, the sunlit gleams of the scenes 
we had been ecstatic over all the day, faded out 
of mind before the solemn sense of expansion 
and strength that I felt here; and as I listened to 
the mournful strains of the De ProfuncLis , it re- 
quired but little assistance from my imagination 
to feel assured that just beyond the piled-up 
snow-clouds lay the gates of heaven. 

So, now, I am on cold and gloomy heights; the 
tranquil sunlit stretches of my life lie behind me, 
— I have gone from them forever. Will St. 
Michael the strong help me? Where is the en- 
thusiasm, the expansion of soul, that I felt in the 
great gloomy hospice of St. Bernard? where that 
inner consciousness of nearness to the sheltering 
panoply of God’s eternal protection? I don’t 
know. I feel strangely desolate and inert; I think 
sometimes that I should like to die. Am I on this 
desolate height that the enervating love of ease 
and the external joys of life may be sloughed off, 
leaving my soul to grow strong and rise to its 
full stature? I do not know. I only know that 
my outlook is gloomy beyond expression, and 
that the opportunity offers for the practice of all 
my fine theories. 

O my God ! how I feel my weakness! Like a 
little, trembling child who has never walked, I 
fear the first steps. Hold, then, my hand, Mother 


400 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


of Sorrows, and never let me go; or, if better, let 
me hold the hem of thy garment, and know that 
my sorrows have part with thine! Let me learn 
to be patient, as thou wast; to be humble, as thou 
wast; to resign myself to the divine will, as thou 
didst; to be, in a far-off way, like unto thee! My 
spirit is so haughty! I am filled with incongrui- 
ties, with opposing qualities; how can I hope to 
win! And yet I must walk with faith these 
stormy waters, or sink and perish. I will not 
perish; with God’s gracious assistance, I will 
not despair ! 

* 5 K ^ * * * * 

How grotesque the shadows from the fire-light 
upon the wall! how strangely they dance; how 
suddenly they disappear; then come trooping 
back, to stretch themselves out again in frantic 
motion whenever the flames flash more brightly. 
They look as if they wonder what I am doing 
here so lonely, and would reach out their 
shadow-hands to invite me to join their elfish 
dance. I hear the mice nibbling and squeaking 
behind the panels, just as they used to do when 
I was a child; they used to make me afraid then, 
but the sound makes company for me to-night. 
The wind raves over the bay, and the boom of 
the waves upon the shingles makes a sublime 
monotone; the windows rattle as the wind and 
snow dash together against them; there is a roar 
in the chimney like the howl of a lion disap- 
pointed of his prey; the din without, and the 
deep silence within, makes me shudder and 
look, with quick, furtive glance, around me. 
But how foolish! The elements are praising 
God according to His holy will; His voice was 
heard in the tempest as well as in the silence; 
why then should I fear? * * * 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


401 


There hang the portraits of my ancestors; 
what a commentary they present in their stately 
beauty, their rich attire, their jewels, their pride, 
on the evanescence of earthly things; for of all 
that brave show, so well preserved by the 
painter’s skill, what survives? A handful of 
dust, perhaps a few mouldering bones. The 
painted shadow lives, but what was once the 
reality is less than a shadow. There stands the 
old furniture just as I first remember it; the 
mirror, which reflected the living faces of those 
up there; the chairs they sat upon; the ward- 
robes, opened and closed thousands of times by 
their living hands; here stands the little inlaid 
table, with its odd, cracked pieces of fine old 
china, and what is left of the quaint family sil- 
ver, all looking exactly as it did that night 
when we — my mother and I — came home. Mrs. 
Meggs, with her old limp sun-bonnet flapping 
around her face, (she never leaves that bonnet 
off now,) attends to my needs. She told me 
when I came back that she “had been expectin’ 
of me all along, and kep’ everything ready.” 

A strange peace falls upon my soul. From 
these bleak heights the outlook is dark, but I 
will not grow faint-hearted. It is not the future 
that appalls me, but 0I1 ! the hurt of the past ! 
can I ever forget it? will the wounds left by it 
ever be healed ? 

The Yellotts made no friendly advances to- 
wards me while I remained at “Hay lands,” nor 
were they openly aggressive; they simply ig- 
nored me by a coldly polite indifference, which 
gave me this advantage, — it left me quite to my- 
self. Frank seemed to avoid being a moment 
alone with me, but he had a great deal of busi- 
26 


402 ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 

ness to attend to, and I did not wonder or feel 
hurt at it. 

Poor Maum Chloe performed her duties as 
housekeeper mechanically ; all animus was gone; 
she moved about feebly, and generally received 
her orders without reply, which invariably ag- 
gravated Mrs. Yellott, who poured out many a 
vial of wrath over the old creature’s head in con- 
sequence of it. I advised her to be patient on 
higher grounds than mere human obedience, 
but she could not understand how a compliance 
with the demands of people who had no right 
whatever to her services, was a religious obliga- 
tion ; for that is the way she construed what I 
said, and threw out hints, her sentences dis- 
jointed, and every hiatus marked by a signifi- 
cant toss of her head, which convinced me that 
she had some purpose weighing on her mind 
that she was unwilling to trust even me with. 

I was awakened early one morning by a hand 
laid upon my shoulder, and, opening my eyes, 
saw her standing at my bedside, trembling in 
every limb. She told me that a gang of work- 
men were busy unroofing the old tobacco-house, 
and orders had been given that there was to be 
no more school. ‘ 1 The men told me, ’ ’ she added, 
“that Mars’ Frank was agwine to build a bowl- 
in’ alley, or somethin’, thar; but it’s no mor’n 
I ’spected, Miss Lucy.” 

I could scarcely believe the evidence of my 
own ears ! To do this without a word to me , 
when he knew the deep interest I took in it ! 
Surely, there must be some mistake! If true, 
there must be a definite issue between us; if op- 
posing principles divided Frank Yellott and me, 
it would have to be forever. 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


403 


“I hope there is some mistake,” I observed; 
“but I will see Mr. Frank and inquire into it 
after breakfast. Do not speak of it among the 
servants, Maum Chloe; you might give great 
offence to Mrs. Yellott, and make the lines harder 
for yourself.” 

“I’ll stretch them ’ere lines, you see if I don’t, 
Miss Lucy. I’ll stretch ’em so, honey, they 
won’t know whar to find the end of ’em,” 
answered the old woman, tossing her head. 

But Frank Yellott was not at breakfast, and 
Mrs. Yellott told Louise, who was just asking 
where he was when I went in, that “he had 
taken his coffee very early, and ridden up to Mr. 
Allston’s to see about some business matters, 
and would not be back until late.” 

“Did he ride ‘Beelzebub,’ mamma?” asked 
Louise. 

“Yes; and he never rides him that I’m not 
miserable, for Frank doesn’t at all know how to 
manage him. Ah! good morning, Miss D’Oliv- 
ieras,” said Mrs. Yellott, in an unusually cordial 
tone. I returned her salutation, and made some 
trifling remark about the brightness of the morn- 
ing, which led to a little discursive conversation. 
I saw that Mrs. Yellott was excited about some- 
thing, from her fidgety ways. At last it came 
out. 

“Miss D’Olivieras,” she said, “do you happen 
to know of a young lady who understands music 
and the languages, who would be willing to ac- 
cept a situation as governess in a wealthy family ? 
I thought, perhaps, there might be some one 
within the range of your acquaintance who 
might suit.” 

“Where do the family to whom you refer re- 


404 


zoii’s DAUGHTER. 


side, Mrs. Yellott?” I inquired, with apparent 
indifference, although I penetrated her aim at 
once, and was foolish enough to feel stung by it. 

“Oh ! in New York, of course. They are 
enormously rich. Mr. Jennings is a banker, and 
his wife is a leader of the toy. They have only 
two daughters, and Mrs. Jennings wishes (they 
are nouveau riche) to get a lady born and bred, 
a lady of good family, accustomed to the most 
exclusive associations, for a governess, who can 
assist in molding the manners as well as the 
minds of her children, and she is willing to pay 
her a liberal salary.” 

“Is it likely,” I asked, “that a lady possessed 
of all those qualificatipns, Mrs. Yellott, would 
be willing to accept such a position?” 

“Not unless she were in reduced circumstan- 
ces, Miss D’Olivieras,” she answered, lowering 
her eyes, and coloring slightly; “but then you 
know there are numbers of people who are sud- 
denly reduced from affluence to penury, and I 
did not suppose this part of the country formed 
an exception to the fact.” 

“ True. What salary does Mrs. Jennings offer, 
Mrs. Yellott?” I asked. 

“Three hundred dollars a year, with board 
and washing throwti in. Do you happen to 
know any one who would suit? ” 

“I do not. If you will excuse me, I am going 
out for a walk,” I answered, rising from the 
table. 

“Certainly, Miss D’Olivieras,” replied Mrs. 
Yellott, “but if you should think of any one 
qualified to accept the situation, the opportunity 
will remain open a week or two longer.” 

“I shall not forget it, Mrs. Yellott,” I an- 
swered. 


I 

ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


405 


As I stood in the hall putting on my wraps, I 
heard her say: “Did you ever see such airs! I 
thought she’d be thankful to hear of a way to 
make an honest living, and in such a family as 
Mrs. Jennings’.” 

“How was she to know, mamma, that the 
offer was made to herself? I see no use in such 
roundabout ways. I can’t bear to see the sight 
of her, for my own part, and believe that she 
still imagines herself mistress here,” responded 
Louise Yellott. 

I drew my crimson-lined hood close around 
my face. My dear Guardy bought the cloak for 
me in Naples, and nothing delighted him more 
than to see it on me, with the soft crimson lining 
of the hood just showing against my cheeks; so 
when I put off all coloring from my toilet and 
donned the deepest mourning, I kept that just as 
it was, in loving remembrance of him. I drew 
on my gloves and went quickly out, dreading to 
hear another word. The sun shone brightly, 
but I walked blindly on, my heart surging with 
anger. I did not notice where I was going, 
until suddenly the sound of heavy falling timbers 
recalled me to myself. I sprang backwards just 
in time to escape the avalanche of rafters and 
shingles that fell, with a terrific crash, almost at 
my very feet. Had I gone a few steps further, I 
should have been buried under them. A horri- 
fied shout from the workmen told me what im- 
minent peril I had escaped. Thanks be to God, 
that I was spared at a moment when the bitter- 
ness and anger that filled my heart would have 
separated me from Him forever! I stood per- 
fectly still, motionless with fright, until the dust 
from the fallen heaps of rubbish arose and rolled 


I 

406 ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 

tip in a sullen cloud over the tree-tops; then I 
saw too truly that the old building where I had 
spent so many happy hours in the fulfillment of 
what seemed to be a good work, was being 
demolished. A great throb of pain wrung my 
heart; I felt myself growing very white, my eyes 
burned, my lips closed angry and rigid as I 
looked upon the work of wanton destruction be- 
fore me. It was well for Frank Yellott that he 
was not there, — well, too, perhaps, for me, — it 
would have relieved me to speak out all that I 
had in my heart, but how much might I not 
have said and provoked that I should have 
regretted whilst I lived? 

I left the spot and walked rapidly on under the 
leafless trees, intending to go down to the river 
shore, for there is something in the sight of the 
rapidly-flowing, sunlit waters that always soothes 
the tumults of my inner life. I did not. observe 
that I had taken the path leading near the 
negroes’ quarters until I heard a merry laugh, a 
baby crowing, then another peal of merriment, 
and looking up I saw Daphne, standing in the 
door-way of her mother’s cabin, dancing her lit- 
tle brother up and down, until the child was in 
the wildest glee. The girl had on a coarse 
woolen dress of black and crimson, which fitted 
her lissom figure with easy grace; her great 
black eyes shone brightly; her dimpled cheeks 
were flushed to crimson; her scarlet lips, open 
with laughter, showed her even white teeth like 
two rows of pearls, and her hair, into which she 
had twined strings of holly berries, was flowing 
back in waving masses over her shoulders. It 
was a lovely picture; and as I stopped ’a moment 
to enjoy it before she caught sight of me, I de- 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


407 


termiiied to sell some of my diamonds, and pur- 
chase her freedom, for the purpose of sending 
her abroad to be educated. Her mother — a 
handsome mulatto whom my dear Guardy had 
purchased when she married one of his slaves — 
stood watching the girl, with a moody expres- 
sion in her countenance, which deepened into 
gloom and bitterness, without a cause that I 
could comprehend, for surely the sight before 
her was one calculated to brighten and cheer 
her mother heart. 

“Take them berries out’en your har, Daph, 
and come ’way from the do’ thar; it’s too cold 
for the chile,” she said roughly. 

“Oh, mother! here’s Miss Ducy!” cried 
Daphne, as turning to obey her mother she saw 
me. 

“Come in, Missis; yon’s very welcome,” said 
Gerty, brushing off a chair with her apron and 
placing it near the fire; “come set here, Missy, 
and toast your feet.” 

I spoke to Daphne, and sat down. The cabin 
was built of logs, and was somewhat larger than 
the others in the quarter, plastered with clay, 
and nicely whitewashed. The fire-place took up 
nearly one end of the room; it was so wide and 
deep that it was easy to sit round the fire under 
the “chimbly” without being too near. There 
was a bright fire of light-wood and corncobs 
burning on the dog-irons, and in one corner there 
was a little mound of clean ashes. Gerty had just 
put on her husband’s'dinner of bacon and greens, 
and some sausage was frying in a pan. I no- 
ticed how clean and comfortable everything was 
— the pine tables, the tins upon the walls, the 
bed in the corner, with its puffy pillows and 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 


408 

white coverlid, nice enough for a lady to sleep 
in, a shelf filled with coarse, brightly-flowered 
china, in the midst of which — evidently a 
cherished ornament — stood a plaster parrot, 
painted in every color of the rainbow. Loops 
of “bachelor’s buttons,” red and white, hung 
round; and strings of birds’ eggs of every size 
and color were festooned here and there; while 
dried grapes and bunches of holly brightened 
the humble home, and expressed how strong a 
love for the beautiful these poor and uncultivated 
slaves had. How few laboring men, even with 
freedom, I thought, have so comfortable a home 
as this. 

I played with the beautiful baby, amused at 
its wide staring eyes, its “wee dimpled mou’,” 
its shy little airs, and its evident desire to get 
hold of my watch chain. Gertv was busy with 
her preparations for the noontide meal; her 
husband would be in from the fields and want 
his dinner at twelve o’clock; he would only have 
an hour to rest and eat in, then back to his hew- 
ing and hauling until sunset, so everything must 
be ready for him. She spread the table under 
the window with a homespun cloth, and laid the 
plates, knives, forks, and salt and mustard; then 
she came to the fire-place with a clean wisp of 
straw in her hand, opened the little mound of 
ashes and took out what looked like a flat loaf, 
which she brushed off with the bunch of straw, 
then dipped it for an instant into a pan of boil- 
ing water, wiping it dry immediately, when 
having folded a clean coarse towel around it, she 
laid it on a “trivet” in the corner to keep warm. 
This was what she called an “ash-cake;” she 
told me how it was made — how it was baked I 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


409 


had seen — and she asked me if I would like to 
taste it. “Very much,” I told her. She took 
her baby, sat down and put him to the breast, 
then told Daphne to run out and “fetch Missis 
a mug of buttermilk, for it eats better with but- 
termilk, Miss Ducy. ” After the girl went away, 
she said, while the same gloomy troubled look 
came back into her eyes: “Missis, we’s gwine 
to have hard times here. You know they’s tar- 
ing down the ole tobacco house, but what’s 
wuss to we ’uns, the nigger-buyer’s about, and 
three of the nigger men runned off larst night. 
That’s why I called Daph away from the do’ so 
rough; she’s a likely gal, an’ it ’ud be safer for 
her to be as black as the chimbly tliar, or dead 
and berried, than be like what she is.” 

“But why — why?” I asked, confused by the 
woman’s strange earnestness, and what seemed 
cruel words. 

“Oh, Missis, don’t you know dey gits a great 
price for sich girls as Daph? dey sells ’em ’way 
off Souf to thar ruin, and nothin’ can save ’em. 
Oh, Missis, I loves her! she’s as near to me as if 
I was white folks, and I been mitey proud of her 
pretty face; but now I wish she was dead; I wish 
she was dead and berried !” exclaimed the poor, 
grieved mother, her lips trembling, and her face 
flaming with mingled emotions. Before I could 
say a word to her, Daphne came in, blooming 
and happy, so delighted to do something for me 
and to see me sitting there in her ‘mammy’s’ 
cabin. I was glad she came, for my heart was 
all in a tumult at what I had just heard. I was 
bewildered, confused; it was so dreadful! What 
if it should be true? 

I tasted the sweet ash-cake and drank a little 


410 ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 

of the buttermilk, and asked Daphne to run out 
and cut me some pretty bunches of holly, to get 
her out of the way. As she closed the door after 
her, bounding out, full of her errand, I laid my 
hand on Gerty’s shoulder, and said: 

“Listen to me, and be comforted. I will buy 
Daphne and take her away if you will trust her 
with me — buy her, understand, Gerty, to give her 
her freedom, and have her educated.” 

“Oh, my God, Missis!” she burst out; “take 
her. I’d be willin’ never to see her again to 
know she’s safe with you. As to this here, he’s 
a boy; they carn’t hurt him, ’ceptin’ by hard 
work, or sellin’ of him off somewhar.” 

I came away full of a new horror and grief. 
Slavery under its best aspects is a miserable 
system — but its abuses, its inevitable results, 
how frightful ! Under my dear Guardy’s humane 
protection, these people did not feel their bonds, 
they were happy and well cared for; but his 
death, in giving them new masters, has let loose 
upon them all the dread evils of the system. I 
started to go back to the house; I determined to 
wait in the library or drawing-room until Frank 
Yellott came back, be it early or late, that I 
might arrange with him at once about the pur- 
chase of Daphne. On my way I met Bligh, his 
head down, his fists clenched, and a scowl all 
over him, as he strode along with heavy steps 
over the crisp, rustling leaves. He scarcely re- 
turned my salutation, and I saw there was a 
glowering look in his deep-set gray eyes as he 
raised them in passing. I wondered at his mood, 
but presently hearing him retrace his footsteps, 
I stopped, waiting for him, to hear what he 
might have to say. He apologized in his 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


411 

homely way for seeming- to be rude, and began 
to tell me, in broad Scotch dialect, his grievances. 
This is one of Bligh’s peculiarities; when he 
gets excited from any cause, he drops naturally 
into this, to me, almost unintelligble jargon; 
although at ordinary times he speaks pretty fair 
English for an uneducated man. 

“Hech, sirs!” he said; “the wurruld is corn- 
in’ to an end, me leddy; mebbe you ha’e seen 
how the de’il has entered into the heart of the 
new master, to despoil the old tobacco-house and 
scatter the puir callants?” 

“Yes, Bligh; I saw it.” I was about passing 
on, my heart was too full to speak, but he begged 
me to wait a minute; he wanted to tell me what 
was going on, for, “mebbe,” he said, “ye can 
put 011 your fine apparel, and dress your bonny 
face in smiles, like Queen Esther did, and go in 
to the king — the de’il fetch him! — and help 
these puir people against the injustice and wrath 
that’s coomin’ upon them.” 

“I shall certainly protest against what seems 
to be going on, and plead my best for them, 
Bligh,” I answered. 

“I was sure you would, Miss. God knows, 
I wish my bones was bleachin’ on the high- 
est peaks of Arran this day, before I lived to 
see what’s cornin’ to pass in the house of the 
righteous. You don’t know the worst, leddy. 
Jones is got his walking papers,” he blurted out. 

“Jones, the manager? I’m sorry to hear that. 
He has been here so many years !” I exclaimed, 
shocked and grieved. 

“Yes; and a guid as well as a just mon; but 
he’s' to go, and there’s a fellow coinin’ in his 
place that’s been overseer on the cotton planta- 


4i2 


ZO&S DAUGHTER. 


tions in Georgy, — a fellow that looks like he 
wouldn’t mind hangin’ a nigger more’ll he’d 
mind hangin’ a cur.” 

“Don’t tell me anything more, Bligli. I 
can’t help it. O my God! how gladly would I 
help it if I could !” I cried, wringing my hands 
in utter distress. * 

“And that's not the worst of it either, by my 
word! He’s brought along wi’ him a couple 
of bluidhounds, — the ugliest lookin’ beasties 
that your two een ever sot on; he’s brought 
them here to ‘Haylands,’ where there never was 
a dog before that wasn’t as harmless as seals. 
What do we want of bluidhounds here? There 
never was one in this whole county before !” he 
said, glowering with wrath. “Miss Lucia, they 
say you’re goin’ to mate wi’ the master of 1 Hay- 
lands, ’ but if you do — why, then — the gude God 
* help you ! ” 

“That is a mistake, Bligli. I shall never be 
mistress of ‘ Haylands. ’ I, too, am going away, ’ ’ 
I replied. 

“ Then the N gude God help us a’!” he said, 
lifting up his hands, his countenance expressive 
of astonishment and distress; “ for there’ll be 
the vera de’il to play from henceforth.” 

I could not stay to prolong a conversation so 
bitterly painful to me. I shook hands with the 
faithful old man, and returned slowly home- 
ward — honseward , I meant, for am I not home- 
less? 

Saturday. — Daphne has disappeared. Her 
mother is lialf-crazed with grief. She came up 
to the house while we were all at dinner, and 
demanded her girl; she called down the curse of 
heaven upon those who had sold away her child. 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


413 


The woman was mad with agony, — she raved 
like a wild beast, and could not be hushed. The 
brutal overseer was sent for, and dragged her 
shrieking away. I heard a curse and a heavy 
blow, then all was still. Frank Yellott went 
into his library, furious and excited. I waited 
awhile, to give him time to get over the scene 
somewhat; then I went in, not like Queen 
Esther, but full of stern anger, and a determina- 
tion to put an end to everything between us. 
He was alone and writing when I went in; he 
looked surprised and not too well pleased; the 
red flame in his forehead flared out distinctly, 
but he arose, handed me a chair, and asked if he 
could be of service to me in any way. 

“I will stand,” I replied. “I am only here 
to ask a simple question. Where is Daphne, 
Frank Yellott?” 

“Run off, probably. Didn’t you know that 
three or four of the slaves had run off?” he 
answered, with a vicious snap of his teeth. 

“It is .something so new for the ‘Haylands’ 
negroes to be running off that I can scarcely 
credit it. But I know from the scene that I 
witnessed just now that Daphne is gone, and I 
want to know what has really been done with 
her,” I said. 

“Really, Miss D’Oli vieras, you seem to take 
a strange interest in my property. What right 
have you to do it?” he asked, sneeringly. 

“Simply the right of humanity, Mr. Yellott; 
also a strong purpose to rescue her from the 
dreadful fate that awaits her, if possible,” I said. 
“I ask you again, where is she? ” 

“What good could you do, Miss D’Olivieras, 
even should I know, and be disposed to tell 
you?” 


414 


ZC)£’ S DAUGHTER. 


“I will explain. I wish to know where 
Daphne is, because if she is not gone beyond all 
hope of recall, I intend to purchase her at a 
price larger than you can obtain elsewhere for 
her. ” 

“You?” he asked, with a half sneer. 

“Yes; I am penniless as to money, as you are 
fully aware, but I have valuable jewels which I 
intend to sell for that express purpose.” 

“What sublime sentimentality! It is refresh- 
ing to witness; but, my dear Miss D’Olivieras, 
I’m sorry that- 1 cannot oblige you. The girl is 
gone,” he replied. 

“You have sold that girl, Frank Yellott! you 
have separated mother and child; you have sold 
her to a life of sin and shame — sold her without 
a chance for her innocence; you have bound her, 
as it were, hand and foot, and given her over to 
the destroyer. How will you answer for all this 
in the day of wrath?” I asked, fearless now of 
all consequences, only intent on rousing his 
conscience and manhood to compunction and 
shame. 

“This is the worst day of wrath I ever expect 
to see, Miss D’Olivieras,” he said, springing 
from his chair with a muttered oath. “If I’ve 
seen fit to sell a slave, whose business is it, I’d 
be pleased to know? What right have you or 
anybody else to come in to me under my own 
roof to take me to task about it? Ha! ha! upon 
my word, things are coming to a fine pass!” 

“Under this roof, so long the abode of your 
benefactor and mine — a home consecrated by 
justice, by religion and honor and humanity, 
and all the attributes that ennoble and sanctify 
the human character, you should, out of com- 


ZOfPs DAUGHTER. 


4^5 


mon decency, have tried to keep up at least the 
reputation of a Christian gentleman,” I said, 
while an immeasurable contempt filled my 
heart. I spoke huskily, for my emotions were 
choking me, and I felt that the last words must 
be said at once. “This, then, is our last meet- 
ing. Whatever has been between us in the 
past is over forever. But I warn you again, in 
the name of a just and merciful God and by the 
memory of your uncle, to deal kindly and justly 
with your people.” 

“Thanks, Miss D’Olivieras, for releasing me 
from an engagement more imaginary than real,” 
he said, sneering in his smiling way. “When 
do you leave ‘Haylands?’” 

“Within an hour, Mr. Yellott; I should fear 
to remain a moment longer than necessary in a 
place upon which the curse of God has fallen. 
I bid you good-day.” 

Perhaps I said too much; perhaps I had no 
right; but I could not help it. If I have sinned, 
I pray God to forgive me and enlighten his soul 
by repentance. 

He bowed, stepped forward and opened the 
door, bowed again, and so we parted in silence 
and bitterness. 

And there were no regrets expressed when I 
announced my intention of going away to Mrs. 
Yellott; she only said: “You are leaving us 
suddenly, Miss D’Olivieras.” 

“Yes; I am going to my home at ‘BuckraeP 
I will ask permission to have the use of the 
boat to convey myself and my trunks across,” I 
replied, coldly. 

“Certainly; make no ceremony, Miss D’Oliv- 
ieras, in calling upon the servants to do what- 


416 


zoe’s daughter. 


ever you need. And, by- th e-bye, don’t forget 
about the governess, if you please; I’m going to 
write to Mrs. Jennings in a day or so,” she said, 
giving me the tips of her fingers. 

“Thanks for the boat, Mrs. Yellott. Good- 
morning.” And so we parted, and so I left 
“Haylands,” turned my back upon my beautiful 
past, and wept away to my old, desolate home. 
I dared not see Maum Chloe, who is sick in her 
cabin; I only left word for her to pack all my 
things, and send the large trunks to “Buckrae” 
as soon as convenient. * * * 

I have formed no definite plans. Father Jan- 
nison approves of what I have done — that is, in 
leaving “Haylands. ” We talk together over 
the past, and he brings me news of how things 
are going on over there — nothing to my comfort 
to hear, nothing to his to relate. We talk over 
my going to New York, which I think of doing, 
and where I can turn my talent for music to 
some account. I could, by the sale of my jewels, 
secure a few years’ ease, but I must have action, 
motive, and a dealing with realities, to restore the 
equilibrium and health of mind and nerves. 
Help of Christians, aid me! Mother of Sorrows, 
pity thy desolate child! 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 


417 


CHAPTER XII. 

A CONVERSATION. 

“ Don’t be downhearted, my child. The lines 
are hard, but the merciful dispensations of God 
are oftentimes worked out through gloomy passes 
which lead at last to the dawn,” said Father 
Jannison, as he sat beside the quaint old fire- 
place at “Buckrae,” 'Lucia, as in times gone by, 
on a low ottoman at his feet. 

Father Jannison began to show his age very 
very perceptibly: his hair was as white as wool, 
and fell in long, silvery masses back from his 
broad forehead, over shoulders no longer square 
and erect, but bowed by the labors and weight 
of the Cross; there were deep lines and many in 
his face; his fine gray eyes, formerly so full of 
beaming kindness and genial good-will, were 
now grown dim and heavy, while his counte- 
nance was both grave and sorrowful, and his 
voice, still kind and assuring to all who ap- 
proached him, had lost its clear ring, which had 
ever been full of welcome and sympathy. Pie 
was failing; he was hard by the goal of rest, and 
had nearly finished his course. What the wear- 
ing and incessant labors of a country mission, 
continued through forty years with untiring fi- 
delity and zeal, had failed to do, the events of the 
last few months accomplished, Allan Brooke’s 
sudden taking off, the cruel changes at “Hay- 
lands” and Lucia’s desolate fortunes, were heavy 
27 


418 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


trials whicli smote him to the core; so true is it 
that the shepherd suffers when his sheep are torn, 
or slain, or lost. He could not help; he could 
only grieve with the poor mother over at “Hay- 
lands” who would not be comforted, over the 
oppressions daily inflicted on the poor slaves 
there by their new task-masters, and the discov- 
ery of Frank Yellott’s utter duplicity and wick- 
edness. Like a harrow the cruel injustice of the 
wicked passed over his soul, leaving wounds 
which, borne for the sake of others, made the 
good priest more like his Divine Master, and 
perhaps made perfect the sum of his earthly ac- 
counts. Changed, all noticed — but over all this 
human change, like the golden smiles of morn- 
ing illuminating some crumbling ruin, there 
shone a heavenly resignation, a patient waiting, 
a readiness to do God’s holy will, whatever it 
might be. 

“Yes, my child; when the darkest hour of the 
dark night comes we may lift up our heads, know- 
ing when we can no longer see to work for our- 
selves that God works for us, and sends us the 
dawn,” continued Father Jannison, his hand 
resting lightly upon Lucia’s head. “Some per- 
sons do not believe in special providences; I do. 
When a person places himself with simple faith 
under the gracious protection of Almighty God, 
referring all things to His divine will, but pray- 
ing as his needs demand, God listens, and in His 
own way and by His own means sends relief, 
saying: ‘Be it done unto thee according to thy 
faith.’ This is what I understand by special 
providence. Abiding in the grace of God, we 
may be assured that all things happen for the 
best, hurt as they may. Suppose all the painful 


ZOEfS DAUGHTER. 


419 


events of the last few months had not happened, 
yon would doubtless have married Frank Yel- 
lott, in the delusive hope that by your influence 
you could bring him back to the Church, when 
all the time he was nothing less than an atheist, 
and only playing his hypocritical game to win 
you when he thought you were sure of getting 
one-half of his uncle’s estate; you would not only 
have been mated with an atheist, but with a 
cruel, unrelenting, unprincipled man. He told 
Mr. Allston that he had no respect for marriage 
ties, and that nothing but to retrieve his fortunes 
and save his honor ever induced him to think of 
fettering himself with a wife. He told me out- 
right that the ‘new philosophy was better and 
more comprehensible than Christianity, — he 
could understand the first, but not the latter, — 
and that He whom we worshipped and called 
God was simply the central governing force of 
nature,’ and much other such infidel trash be- 
sides. He got out of his pretended desire to be 
reconciled to the Church — for I pinned him to 
the wall — by telling me, with the coolest effron- 
tery, that it was a stratagem he was compelled 
against his will to resort to to win you, at a time 
when he thought your prospective fortune would 
put him on his legs again, and that he never 
had the most distant idea of consummating his 
folly by a participation of the Sacraments, which 
he plainly scoffed at as mummery. You may 
well shudder, my child, at the thought of the 
bitter misery such a union would have brought 
you.” Father Jannison stopped to refresh him- 
self with a pinch of snuff. 

“ Padre mio! I did not know there was such 
wickedness upon earth. I had better have died 
I 


420 ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 

than to have married that man,” almost gasped 
Lucia. 

“ Yes, my child, unless it had been God’s holy 
will that by such a marriage you should win the 
crown of a slow martyrdom; but by some inscru- 
table way you are saved. It is our privilege to 
believe that He who promised to be a Father to 
the fatherless has done it, and that He will con- 
tinue to protect and defend you against all evil, 
seen and unseen. So let us trust Him forever ! ” 

“I am thankful to have escaped — so thankful, 
Padre mio , that my poverty and friendlessness 
grow welcome by comparison. What should I 
have done? How ever should I have borne such 
an ordeal? It seems to me to be a great risk to 
marry a man whom one simply respects; but to 
marry a man for whom contempt must soon take 
the place of even a cold respect! I cannot 
imagine a trial more unendurable,” answered 
Lucia with a low, shuddering sigh. “I’m 
afraid, Padre mio , I could not have stood the 
test; I fear that had it happened so, all that is 
worst in me would have been aroused into ac- 
tion ! Therefore I thank God that my trials are 
not of that kind, and I will try to bear the incon- 
venience of them with patience.” 

“That’s right, my brave heart. That unfor- 
tunate young fellow is making ducks and drakes, 
as the saying is, of the princely fortune he has so 
unexpectedly got control of. His mother leaves 
everything to him, so he is not restricted in 
money matters. But there’s one question I wish 
to ask you, my child, in the most sacred confi- 
dence. Has a suspicion ever entered your mind 
that Frank Yellott knows anything about the 
lost will?” 


t 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


421 


“ Indeed no, Padre mio; he is clear of that I 
believe. I cannot imagine him guilty of so base 
an act as to have tampered with the will,” re- 
plied Lucia earnestly, and with true Christian 
charity. 

“ We will believe so, then, for charity’s sake, 
my child. I saw Bligh to-day.” 

“Did Bligh tell you anything, Padre mio?' n 

“Nothing except that your other favorite with 
the pagan name — a quadroon girl” — 

“Calliope?” 

“ Yes, Calliope, suddenly disappeared the 
other day, and that Daphne’s father, Jeffry, has 
run off. They had a great hunt with the blood- 
hounds after him, but the savage animals lost 
the trail at the ‘Point.’ He had evidently 
escaped in a boat, and is, I trust, in safety, either 
in the depths of the Dismal Swamp with other 
fugitives who are reported to live there, or that 
some northern-bound vessel picked him up.” 

“ I . trust he is following his child and will 
rescue her at the risk of his life. I know Jeffry; 
he’s an intelligent negro, with as nice a sense of 
honor and as deep a love for his family as a 
white man could possibly have. Oh! I’m de- 
lighted to hear that he’s off, for now I have 
some hope for my poor girl.” 

“Let us pray for her deliverance, my child; it 
is all that we can do for her or for them,” said 
Father Jannison, sadly and wearily. 

“I have already done more, Padre mio — don’t 
blame me — but I was almost distracted about 
her and by her mother’s grief. Oh, Padre mio , 
it’s dreadful to see and hear her. She declares 
if another girl-child is ever born to her she’ll 
strangle it with her own hands. Her eyes are 


422 


ZOt'S DAUGHTER. 


like burning coals, she eats nothing, she is 
emaciated, and her handsome boy-baby, so 
chubby and merry a few weeks ago, is dying by 
inches, for she has no milk for him. Maum 
Chloe told me about it when she came to see me 
one night last week, and the next day I went 
across The river, and went to see Mr. Allston in 
a gig that some of them over there had hired 
and kept in readiness for me at the tobacco land- 
ing. Mr. Allston had heard all about the sell- 
ing of Daphne, and even knew the name of the 
trader who bought her. I opened my large 
casket of diamond ornaments, that I took over 
with me, and showed them to him. He exam- 
ined them, and said they were the finest he had 
ever seen, and worth thousands of dollars. ‘ In 
that case, Mr. Allston,’ said I, ‘I deposit them 
with you, and desire you to send a special mes- 
senger after the trader and offer him two or three 
hundred dollars more than he paid for the girl, 
to get her back. I am determined to do it, Mr. 
Allston, if it costs me the price of every diamond 
there.’ Mr. Allston scolded and tried to dissuade 
me by assuring me that the case was hopeless; 
he told me I was worse than my countryman, 
Don Quixote, to be stripping myself, as poor as 
I was, to buy a negro just to illustrate an im- 
practicable principle and glorify a sentimental 
idea. He told me that if I was going to set out 
to remedy all the evils of society, I ought to be 
put into a lunatic asylum until I got better.” 

“And what did you say?” asked Father Jan- 
nison, his face beaming approval. 

“I told him that I had no such magnificent 
idea as that. I only intended to do a little at a 
time, as things came into my way, and hoped to 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


423 


find my reward at the hands of the King who 
commended His servant for being faithful over 
a few things, and made him ruler over many. 
Upon which Mr. Allston took off his spectacles 
and wiped them, and muttered something about 
chimeras — but I did not notice, and went on to 
tell him that no matter what he might think 
about the affair, the diamonds were my property, 
and that he as my business agent ha'd no right to 
question any use I might choose to make of 
them. I suppose I looked as I felt, for my spirit 
was up” — 

“How then?” 

“ He grew red, frowned a little, then burst out 
laughing, and, offering me his hand, promised 
to do the best he could to get the child back. 
That’s all, Padre mio ,” said Lucia, with quite a 
glow on her pale cheeks. 

“That’s enough. Oh ! my child, you should 
have lived in the good old times, when the saints 
gave their fortunes, their liberties, their lives, to 
ransom the slave; you would, no doubt, with 
such a spirit, have been at this moment one of 
that glorious host' in heaven who have won their 
palm and crown,” said Father Jannison, holding 
his hand as in benediction over her head. 

“ It was nothing much for me to do, Padre 
mio. I only followed the bent of my natural im- 
pulses, you know,” answered Lucia. 

“Well ! well ! there’s a day coming when all 
human accounts will be evenly balanced; then 
only, my child, will you know to its fullest ex- 
tent what a meritorious work you have done. 
Notwithstanding which, I do not think it alto- 
gether wise, all alone as you are in the world, 
to strip yourself entirely of means to live in the 
future.” 


424 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


“ Padre into , do /not get uneasy about me. 
There is something in me opposed to supineness. 
It would simply kill me to dawdle, doing nothing 
but thinking, thinking all the time. I want ac- 
tion; I want an aim and object in life. Without 
incentive, sadness and weariness would rust me 
to destruction. So I mean to be up and doing. 
My late sorrowful experiences have taught me a 
lesson full of consolation, and never to be forgot- 
ten, inasmuch as I now know that earthly joys 
leave us at the best but ghostly memories and 
sad regrets, while griefs give birth to hope, and 
elevate the soul to the only true and eternal real- 
ities. Oh, I have grown very old in a few 
months! ” 

“Your trials have not then been in vain, if 
they have taught you a lesson so full of true wis- 
dom as this, my child. But unfortunately we 
are always trammeled by the necessities of life; 
and, so long as we breathe, cannot live above 
them. I want to know, my good child, if you 
have yet formed any definite plans for the future. 
There’s the money left by poor old Jupe — about 
five hundred dollars by this time; and here in 
my desk is four hundred and fifty more, the ac- 
cumulated rent paid regularly to me — as you de- 
sired — by Mrs. Meggs, after you went to live at 
‘ Haylands. ’ My poor friend Brooke — God give 
peace to his soul — told me to take care of it all 
for you, which I have done.” 

“Thanks, Padre mio ! a thousand thanks! 
That is quite a fortune, and will give me time 
to define my plans. I thought of going to New 
York, where, aided by your letters of introduc- 
tion to some of your friends among the clergy, I 
intended to try and get a few pupils for the 


ZCX&’S DAUGHTER. 


425 


harp and piano; and I may be so fortunate as to 
get a situation as organist. Now you see that 
my plans are very practical and very simple, 
aren’t they?” 

‘‘The Lord bless and keep you, my brave 
heart,” said Father Jannison, his eyes filled 
with tears, looking down at the pale, earnest 
face, illuminated by its magnificent eyes and 
glowing with the fire of determination, which 
was raised to his. 

“And when do you intend starting?” he asked. 

“As soon as ever I get news from Mr. Allston 
about that business, you know, and can hear of 
a good opportunity. 1 suppose I shall have to 
go to Baltimore?” 

“That will be the best arrangement. It is a 
long, rough, tiresome journey from there to New 
York, over roads scarcely passable — first stage, 
then packet, then chance conveyance. I declare, 
I don’t see how you’ll ever get there !” 

“Oh I shall get there, be sure of that, Padre 
vtio ,” replied Lucia, laughing. “But there’s 
something on my mind that I want settled, and 
I’m going to beg your special interest in it. 
Maum Chloe will not remain at ‘Haylands,’ 
I’m sure; the Yellotts are not kind to her, and 
she is both disgusted and frightened at the new 
order of things. I wrote to Mr. Allston to 
inquire if she — being free — will be compelled 
to leave the State. He wrote me word that 
there is a law capable of such construction, but 
it has been enforced so seldom that it may be 
regarded as a dead letter; and if anything 
should be attempted to Maum Chloe’s hurt, he 
will make it his business to protect her to the 
extent of his ability. Her freedom and future 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


426 

comfort were the only written expression of my 
dear Guardy’s wishes that have been found, and 
at the risk of everything he would test the 
validity . of the case should she be meddled with, 
or wish to leave 1 Haylands. ’ ’ ’ 

“That is kind of Mr. Allston. What a strange 
being he is!” said Father Jannison, looking well 
pleased. 

“He’ll do all that he says, Padre mio ; I’m 
sure of that; but meanwhile Maum Chloe may 
wish to come away from 1 Haylands ’ — indeed, I 
dont’ think she will be able to remain — and if 
she should, I wish it distinctly understood that 
she is to live here at ‘ Buckrae ’ as long as she 
pleases, and let half the rent go towards her sup- 
port. Also Bligh, who I think will leave — ” 

“There, my child, you are mistaken. Bligh 
told me the other day that he meant to stay 
there, unless he was hunted off by the blood- 
hounds, to take care of things until the ‘will’ 
comes to light. He suspects foul play about 
that will, but held his tongue as to just what, 
or whom he does suspect, and I did not question 
him. He knows they can’t do without him 
over there, he says; and he means to be deaf and 
dumb to things he can’t help, till he sees the 
matter out. Mrs. Yellott and her daughters are 
fond of fruits and flowers, and as he is so suc- 
cessful in the culture of both, he may be re- 
tained. He says they are civil enough to him, 
and I’ll trust liis Scotch hard-headedness and 
keen wits to do whatever he makes up his mind 
to.” 

Lucia was looking wistfully into the fire, and 
Father Jannison saw her eyes fill slowly with 
tears, which overflowed and fell in great drops 


ZOI$’S DAUGHTER. 


427 


upon her folded hands, which lay listlessly in 
her lap; then she lifted her head, looked with a 
startled glance around her, and pressed her fin- 
gers lightly on her eyelids for a moment. 

“I was ‘over there,’ Padre viio , in the past, 
and it was so real that when, all at once, I 
roused from my dreaming, I felt frightened 
at being here! Don’t you see now how it will 
be with me if I have no aim in life, and sit down 
to think all the time,” she said with a sad smile. 

“ I see, my child,” answered Father Jannison, 
profoundly touched by the little incident. 
“Give yourself no uneasiness; so far as I can I 
will attend to your wishes here, and try to for- 
ward your plans in New York. I have two or 
three old friends among the clergy there, to whom 
I will give you letters of introduction when you 
are ready to leave your old home. But it is 
time for me to be going, Lucia, my dear, and if 
you’ll give me a cup of hot tea before I start I 
will be very thankful.” 

“Not only a cup, Padre mio , but fountains of 
hot tea. I think Mrs. Meggs must be asleep to 
neglect us so long past the usual hour,” said 
Lucia, with a pleasant laugh, as she ran down to 
inquire the cause of the delay. True, Mrs. 
Meggs had fallen asleep in one corner of the 
fire-place, and her husband, propped up in his 
high-backed chair, opposite, was gazing at her, 
or seemed to be doing so, out of eyes that, in com- 
parison with his shrunken face, looked like two 
pewter saucers. He was muttering and nodding 
his head towards her — all the rest of him dead 
— when, as Lucia held the door open an instant, 
a red glare flared suddenly up, and she saw that 
the skirt of Mrs. Meggs’ old calico dress was on 


428 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 


fire. With a light spring she reached the bed 
and dragged off the home-made woolen spread, 
and wrapping it quickly around the sleeping 
woman, smothered the flame by throwing her- 
self upon her and clasping her tight in her arms, 
which she was able to do without injury to her- 
self, as the woolen quilt protected her from the 
now smouldering fire. But Mrs. Meggs thought 
the kelpies or ghosts had hold of her, perhaps 
something worse, for she felt the smart of the 
fire on her legs, and something clutching her in 
a most pertinaciously tight grasp; so in her 
fright, and through the clouds of smoke that 
were surging up from under her, she screamed 
and struggled as for life; Sam all the time look- 
ing on unblinkinglv, and unable to move hand 
or foot. 

“I came in to ask a cup of tea, Mrs. Meggs, 
for Father Jannison, and you were just blazing 
up; I suppose a spark flew out on your dress,” 
Lucia at last got an opportunity to tell her, as, 
obliged to stop screaming for want of breath, she 
fell back in a chair gasping. 

“And to think I might ha’ burnt to a coal, 
and he tliar would ha’ gone on starin’ and starin’, 
poor soul! Thankee, Miss D’Oli vieras, I b’lieve 
you’ve saved my life,” said Mrs. Meggs, burst- 
ing into tears. 

“Are you much hurt?” asked Lucia kindly, 
but amused at the ludicrous side of the affair. 

“Wal n-n-no-o, I doesn’t think its more’n a 
little scotchin’ of my skin; that poor soul thar, 
jest look at him, how distressed he is ! Now you 
go up stars, Miss D’Olivieras, honey, and I’ll 
bring up some tea and things for you and Father 
Jannison,” answered Mrs. Meggs, feeling more 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 429 

assured with every word that her legs were still 
her own. 

“But let me get soipe ointment or something 
for your blistered skin,” said Lucia kindly. 

“ Look here, Miss D’Olivieras, I always keeps 
carrot sarlve on hand, and it heals up things in 
a jiffy; you run on up now,” said Mrs. Meggs, 
bustling around in a way that convinced Lucia 
she was not either seriously or very painfully 
hurt; and she returned to her apartments to give 
Father Jannison a spirited account of the inci- 
dent, who was amused, and told her that he was 
glad to find that she had so much presence of 
mind, as by it she had doubtless saved Mrs. 
Meggs’ life. After swallowing his cup of tea, 
Father Jannison bade Lucia good-bye, gave her 
his blessing, and, going down, stopped to see the 
Meggses, and lost all further uneasiness about 
Mrs. Meggs’ burn when she told him, in her 
quaint way, that “’twant nothin’; she’d heap 
ruther been burnt herself than had her good cal 1 
ico gown and her cotton cloth petticoat scotched 
into great holes. ’ ’ 

In about a week Lucia got a note from Mr. 
Allston, containing these brief words: “I’m on 
the trail, and expect to get the girl back. ” Short, 
but full of hope, and before sunset she had whis- 
pered the good news into poorGerty’s ear, reviv- 
ing her sinking- life as with a potent cordial, and 
bringing into her tear-dimmed eyes the first ray 
of brightness that had sparkled in them since 
the day her child was stolen away from her. 
Then Maum Chloe’s cabin was visited, and Lucia 
found the desolate old woman alone, rocking 
herself over the embers, and crooning a quaint 
nursery ditty that she used to sing her little 


430 


zoe’s daughter. 


white foster-baby asleep with in the days long 
ago. Those days were growing very near and 
very real to Mamn Chloe, as they do to most old 
people, who, while they become forgetful of the 
events of middle life and the present, remember 
the smallest details of their childhood and youth. 

“Ah honey,” she said, after her surprise at 
seeing Lucia was over, “you come in jest like 
them good sperrets used to come to visit the tents 
of the righteous in the good ole times. Now set 
down, and let me look at you.” 

And Lucia sat down close by her, holding her 
dusky, wrinkled hand in hers, talking and try- 
ing to comfort her as she poured out her griev- 
ances and complaints. She offered to read the 
old Congressional speech, thinking it would 
be a treat to her to hear it once more, but she 
said: “No, Miss Lucy, it’s dead; nothin’ that 
he spoke I don’t want to hear, ’cause it’s like 
keepin’ somethin’ here that b’ longs to hisself. 
I couldn’t stand it nohow.” 

Then, as the twilight crept into the cabin, 
Lucia arose to go. She said a few gentle words 
of* farewell, and hurried out and down the old 
familiar path towards the lower landing, where 
the boat she had crossed in awaited her. About 
midway of the river she lifted her head, and push- 
ing back the hood of her cloak, which was drawn 
closely over her face to protect it from the north- 
east wind, which was piercingly cold, she looked 
towards “Hay lands” and saw the house lighted 
up as for a festival. Turning her 'face quickly 
towards the opposite shore, she once more drew 
her hood around it, her heart swelling with 
memories of the happy past, in such contrast 
to her present loneliness — a contrast as marked 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


431 


as that between the festive appearance of the 
house at “Haylands” and herself out in the 
murky night on the rough, gloomy river — that 
she bowed her head upon her knees and cried 
like a child; for not only did a great pity for her- 
self take possession of her, but the feeling that it 
was probably the last time she would ever look 
upon the place so endeared to her by past associ- 
ations, added poignancy to her emotions. She 
would leave it all in a few days — the old home 
at “Buckrae,” and w r hat had been the dearer 
home at “Haylands” — to begin the struggle of 
life among strangers in almost a strange country. 
The vessel in which she was going to Baltimore 
was only waiting to complete her cargo of to- 
bacco, and then, i'f a fair wind served, would sail 
without delay; all her preparations were made, 
and there was nothing left for her but to take 
up the burden of her cross and go, as soon as the 
captain’s message came telling her that he was 
ready. 


432 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A BROKEN WHEEL. 

IT was a cold, raw morning; a fine rain, drift- 
ing in with the f6g from the bay, made every- 
thing on the main land look ghostly and distorted 
under the gray dawn, and Lucia shivered as she 
stood on the old worn hall steps, looking around 
at the cheerless prospect, while she waited for 
Mrs. Meggs to bring round a dilapidated stick- 
gig, which with a horse badly afflicted with the 
“heaves” she had lately bought at a vendue, 
both answering her purpose as well as the best. 
Lucia was going to drive herself up to St. 
Inigoes, to be in time for the first Mass, that she 
might receive the strengthening help of the 
Holy Eucharist, and Father Jannison’s blessing, 
before starting on her long and fatiguing journey 
northward. 

There was no one in the old church except 
Father Jannison — who in surplice and stole was 
kneeling before the altar when she entered — and 
herself. He soon arose and went into the con- 
fessional, heard Lucia’s confession, gave her ab- 
solution, and having said a few parting words he 
returned to the altar, lit the candles, and began 
the celebration of the Divine Mysteries, which, 
saddened as they both were by recent trials, 
were fraught to them on this morning with a 
deeper solemnity than usual, and opened to 
them a higher comprehension, a more tangible 


ZOIS’S DAUGHTER. 


433 


reality of their sufficiency for all the needs of 
the soul, than ever before; so true is it that when 
our affection for earthly things is purified by 
tribulation, and the transitory glamour vanishes 
that lit into scenes of witching beauty the fast 
fleeting cloud-land of life, and they fade, fade 
into shadow and nothingness, we find heaven 
nearer than we ever dreamed, and realize truly 
that thence cometh the only true and lasting 
consolation. 

Should she ever kneel before that time-honored 
altar again? Should she ever receive from 
Father Jannison’s hands the “Bread of Life” 
again ? Oh, there was a very home feeling, a 
sense of shelter in the walls of this old church — 
and it seemed, now that she was going from it 
perhaps forever, that it was a “city of refuge” 
painful beyond measure to leave. These thoughts 
— all unbidden — formed a sort' of under-current 
to Lucia’s devotions: but at last all human feel- 
ings were hushed; the supreme moment came, 
which brought into the temple of her soul the 
real presence of the Divine Guest; and on this 
new Calvary, clinging close to the feet of Her 
whose heart the “sword of grief did pierce,” she 
felt that it was easy to sacrifice all earthly ease, 
aye, life itself, in exchange for the sure hope of 
enjoying their presence forever. With this hope 
and this Food to strengthen her, she could go 
away from the green plains of Goshen, out into 
the bare desert beyond — bare to her of home, 
friends and familmr voices; bare of all that her 
life had been hedged in with of affection, of pro- 
tection, and every soft appliance waiting on the 
state of those who enjoy the “purple and fine 
linen.” But in the strange city to which she 
28 


434 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


was going she would find her soul’s home, if all 
others failed her : there she could participate in 
the same unchangeable and Divine Mysteries; 
receive the same life-giving Food, kneel at the 
same altar, be purified by the same divinely del- 
egated powers; and she blessed God for the gift 
of His Church, for its holiness, its oneness, its 
universality, which affords to earth’s wanderers 
the same familiar rites and ceremonies, crowned 
by the same august Sacrifice, the same devotions, 
the same liturgy, the same venerable language, 
which makes them at home wherever they may 
be, giving rest to their weariness and cheer to 
their exile. 

Lucia made her thanksgiving with renewed 
courage, and when Father Jannison laid off his 
vestments, and extinguished the lights upon the 
altar, he came out of the sanctuary to speak to 
her. 

“I thought I could not let you go, my child, 
without my blessing,” he said, in a low voice. 

Again the human prevailed in her nature, and 
kneeling at his feet she held his hand in both 
her own, her forehead bowed upon it and her 
tears flowing over it; it was like severing the 
last tie between herself and the loved ones of 
her past, to say finally “ good-bye” to the ven- 
erable priest; it renewed her griefs — so weak is 
nature — and made her feel how desolate she 
would be when she could no more come to him, 
who knew her life as she herself knew it, for 
comfort and counsel. Father Jannison’s voice 
faltered into indistinctness as he uttered the 
words of benediction, sprinkling the bowed head 
before him with heavy tears that dropped all un- 
bidden from his eyes; his heart moved with 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


435 


great pity for the friendless, tenderly nurtured 
girl, whose struggle with the grim realities of 
life had just begun. 

“Farewell, Padre mio ; pray for me,” she 
said, with a pathetic effort to be calm ; then she 
pressed her lips to the hand she still clung to, 
and hastened out of the church, unable to pro- 
long a farewell which she knew, if sorrowful to 
her, must also be painful to her saintly old 
friend, and she was too purely unselfish to add a 
feather’s weight to his already overburdened 
heart, however much it might console her to 
have his sympathy. 

Before going to the house she made her last 
visit to the graves of her mother and guardian, 
shed her last tears where they rested, and, kneel- 
ing on the damp earth, said prayers for their 
eternal repose, while a strong cry from her in- 
most soul ascended to them, imploring the as- 
sistance of their prayers — full of living faith in 
the communion of saints, as the Church teaches, 
a doctrine so inseparable from the needs of the 
soul that without it it is a wonder how the peo- 
ples who are not of “this kingdom,” survive 
the losses and tribulations of earth’s exile. 

Bligh had come across from “Haylands” a 
day or two before, to tell Lucia to give herself 
no uneasiness about the burial-place being kept 
in good order until she came back, if she ever 
did — and even if she did not, so long as he lived; 
for if he was obliged to leave “Haylands,” 
which he wouldn’t do if he could help it, he’d 
come to “ Buckrae” to live, and help Mrs. Meggs 
to take care of things. He was old and needed 
rest, and having enough to live on, he wouldn’t 
object to taking it. “Only,” he added, “I 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


436 

ha’e a purpose in stayin’ over yonder. There’s 
strange whispers goin’ around the country about 
the will, and I ha’e been asked strange questions, 
but my promise to ye made me hauld my tongue. 
But I think my own thoughts for a’ that.” 

‘ ‘ For the sake of my dear Guardian, Bligh, who 
was your true friend, and for the honor of the 
family, stop such reports wherever you hear 
them, by saying that I am perfectly satisfied, and 
convinced that the will was destroyed with the 
intention of another being made,” said Lucia, 
placing a little keepsake in the old Scotchman’s 
hand — a silver snuff-box, which Mrs. Meggs had 
found in some old drawer, so black and tarnished 
that she was on the eve of throwing it out of the 
window, when the top fell open, and she saw by 
the hinges what it was; and cleaning it until it 
glittered again, she carried it in triumph to 
Lucia, who was just wondering what she should 
give Bligh as a parting present. 

“I’ll do it; I’ll promise, Miss Lucia — for 
your sake, and for naebody else’s, because for 
them that’s dead and gone a great injustice has 
been done, and the wrath of the Lord will follow 
the one that did it.” 

“Leave all then with Him, Bligh, for He sees 
and knows the hidden secrets of men — and, when 
He wills, brings them to light,” said Lucia 
gently. 

“Aye, that’s so, Miss Lucia. Thank ye for 
this siller box. I ha’e always used a mull, 
but I’ll put my mockaboy in this, now, and be 
as fine as a laird,” said Bligh, his rugged 
features glowing with satisfaction and grim 
humor. “I’ve been up yonder,” he added in a 
lower tone, “with some flowers, and I’ll cooni 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


437 


every opportunity, and put ’em ower baith 
graves, never fear, Miss Lucia.” Then he 
wrung her hand in a great grasp which almost 
made her cry out, and went away, leaving her 
comforted to know that the earth-shrines where 
her dear ones rested would not be neglected. 

All of Lucia’s preparations were completed; 
the presents for each one of her humble friends on 
the “ other side ” duly wrapped in separate par- 
cels and labeled; Mrs. Meggs was generously 
requited for her trouble, and promised to deliver 
the things, with Lucia’s kind messages, to those 
for whom they were left, and comfort Maummy 
Chloe for not seeing her by the promise of a 
letter as soon as ever she arrived at New York, 
which Father Jannison would read to her; for 
she had not the courage to go to “ Haylands ” 
again, much less to witness the grief which 
.she knew the desolate old woman would feel 
on parting with her. There was nothing left 
to be done, nothing left for her but t\> wait for 
a fair wind to take the “Sea Rover ” — the ves- 
sel in which she had secured passage to Balti- 
more — out of the river; and waiting is always 
a wearisome affair to an active temperament. 
One morning, however, after breakfast she sat 
down to write a few lines to Mr. Allston, re- 
questing him to communicate with her through 
Father Jannison until she sent him her address, 
and in case he succeeded in repurchasing the 
young girl Daphne, to send her, provided with 
a safe escort, to her in New York. She instructed 
him to spare no necessary expense in carrying 
out li£r directions, if it took every cent of the 
price of her jewels. She had scarcely closed and 
addressed the letter when a message came from 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


43 8 

Captain Shelly to say that the wind had veered 
to the right quarter, and he was going to hoist 
sail in about ten minutes. 

To put on her cloak and hat, throw a large 
shawl over her arm, take a hurried leave of Mrs. 
Meggs and poor Sam — who snivelled and made 
such desperate efforts to speak that his eyes 
looked as if they were bursting out of his head — 
and hurry down to the “landing,” where a small 
boat was waiting to carry her on board the “ Sea 
Rover" which lay off near the .channel, did not 
consume much time, and she breathed a sigh of 
relief that it was all over and she at last em- 
barked on the unknown sea of her new life. She 
had no thoughts of baggage to distract her, for 
her trunks had been in the hold of the vessel 
two or three days, and leaning her folded arms 
on the taffrail, she looked longingly out at the 
bright waters dancing in the sunshine, at the 
wooded shores with their fringe of snowy sand, 
at the gables and turrets of ‘ ‘ Haylands, ’ ’ whose 
windows were glowing in the golden sunbeams 
like flame, at the sloping lawn, where she knew 
the white hyacinths and crocuses were gemming 
the brown earth and filling the air with perfume, 
until it all seemed like a dream and faded into 
blue indistinctness as the vessel, every sail set, 
scudded before the wind, and began to rock on 
the swell made by the confluence of the river 
and the bay. 

From Baltimore to Philadelphia a week, from 
Philadelphia to New York, three weeks, by all 
manner of conveyances, some public, some hired 
by the jaded travelers; roads beyond everything 
bad; and the weather growing colder — were 
Lucia’s experience of a journey which can now be 


ZOIS’S DAUGHTER. 439 

safely and swiftly accomplished in twelve hours. 
When she took the last stage, some fifteen miles 
from New York, she discovered that all of her 
fellow-passengers had taken connecting lines 
to their various homes, except one who had got in 
at the last post-station, but who was so muffled up 
in a fur-lined cloak, with a great fur cap pulled 
closely down over his ears, that his face was al- 
most concealed — more however by a book, which 
he persistently read, than by his wraps. Lucia 
was at the other extremity of the stage, her thick 
black veil over her face, thinking of the white 
hyacinths and crocuses blooming in the dear 
South-land, as she watched the thick-falling 
snow of a storm which had been threatening all 
day. She drew her shawl closer around her, 
for it was getting bitterly cold, and at the mo- 
ment was seized with a fit of coughing, the effect* 
of a cold taken the day before. Down went the 
book, and back the fur cap from the stranger’s 
forehead, revealing a pair of fine gray eyes full of 
intelligence and kindness. It was evident, that 
until that moment, he had been unaware of the 
presence of any one else in the stage. He took 
a small paper bundle from his side pocket, and, 
snapping the string, offered the contents — crys- 
tallized sugar — to Lucia, saying: “Pardon the 
liberty, madam, but I think this may soothe your 
distressing cough.” The voice was kind and 
friendly, and Lucia thankfully accepted the 
remedy, wondering in a listless sort of a way 
what a great, broad-shouldered man like this 
was carrying about bundles of candy with him 
for. He asked her if the window was perfectly 
closed, if he should lower the leather curtain, if 
she would not prefer changing her seat — to all 


440 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


of which she simply answered yes, or no, with 
thanks; then, finding he could not farther serve 
her, he pulled down his cap, pulled up his fur 
collar above his cars, and resumed his book, ap- 
parently forgetting her existence. 

The gray shadows thickened, and through 
them the great feathery snowflakes came fall- 
ing and fluttering earthward looked as if all 
the lily flowers of heaven might be shedding 
their stainless leaves in showers of whiteness to 
cover as with a mantle of purity the defacements 
of the “serpent’s trail.” Here and there, when 
there came a brief lull, Lucia saw white ghostly 
stretches of country, with a few red lights 
glowing cheerfully out across the waste from 
the windows of the scattered farm houses. The 
musical ringing made by the iron-bound wheels 
of the heavy stage coach as they passed over 
the frozen snow, and the regular tramp of the 
horses’ feet crunching slowly through it, soothed 
by the very monotony of the sounds, and Lucia 
took out her precious rosary to hold sweet con- 
verse with the Help of Christians through the 
mystery of her dolors. What better comfort 
could she have found in this, her hour of desola- 
tion? No home awaited her in the strange city 
towards which she was going; there was no cer- 
tainty ’that she would succeed in her plans; she 
had no hope of seeing any but strange faces. 
Had she not been hasty ? Should she not have 
attended to the wiser counsels and suggestions 
of Mr. Allston and Father Jannison? But her 
courage must not fail her now at a moment 
when she most needed it; the conditions were 
hard, but she had made up her mind to face 
them and grapple with whatever difficulties 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 44 1 

might arise to discourage her; so she choked 
back her tears, for after all what home or friend 
awaited Mary and her Divine Babe in the cold, 
cruel city of Bethlehem, when from door to door 
they sought shelter from the wintry night, find- 
ing none, refused by all — until perhaps, for very 
shame, they were allowed the corner of a stable, 
where the stalled oxen fed, and where no friendly 
voice greeted, no friendly hand served them. 
But of all this humility what glory was born? 
Heaven itself descended to the lowly place; the 
Prince of Peace entered His inheritance, and the 
first-born of the sons of God waited, adoring, on 
the Holy Family. 

Some such thoughts passed through Lucia’s 
mind, and she hoped that at last by humility 
and patience she might become worthy to be the 
handmaid of the Virgin Mother. She knew 
that humility was the first condition, but how 
could she ever crush the serpent-liead of pride 
which so pervaded her being ? 

Darkness was now about the travellers; the 
driver had lit his lamps, which shed a pale 
flickering gleam on the steadily falling snow as 
the lumbering vehicle was slowly drawn along 
by the jaded horses. Lucia’s fellow traveller 
was asleep, and she, tired beyond measure, 
leaned her head back and closed her eyes — for 
they ached sadly — hoping that she might fall into 
a doze. But the road became so rough that sleep 
was impossible; then came a sudden crash, a 
shout, a blow, and everything grew dark and 
blank around her. She was conscious of nothing 
more until a dim sense of feeling the bitterly cold 
wind in her face, of being carried along swiftly in 
the strong arms of somebody, of hearing a voice 


44 2 


zoe’s daughter. 


that did not sound strange say “No; she has 
only fainted,” roused her so far as to wonder 
where she was, who she was, and what had hap- 
pened? Then a red glare flashed across her eyes, 
a sudden warmth, a sound of voices, the smell 
of tobacco, assailed her senses, and then she was 
laid down and pillows were placed under her 
head. Feebly unclosing her eyes, but still un- 
able to articulate, she saw that she was iu the 
public room of a small wayside inn. There 
was a great blazing fire upon the hearth, and two 
men were sitting at a table smoking and playing 
cards, while a huge tankard of frothing ale stood 
between them. She could not see very distinctly, 
for her black veil was entangled around her head ; 
but she heard a firm gentle voice directing one 
of the women, whom he called Gretchen, to un- 
fasten her bonnet-strings and remove the veil 
very carefully, that she might have air. What 
was it all about? Who was it having her at- 
tended to, as if with the right of a friend? 

Gretchen performed her task awkwardly, tho’ 
with the best intentions, and in -taking off 
Lucia’s bonnet somehow managed to pull out 
her comb, and her magnificent hair fell sweep- 
ing over her shoulders to the floor, where it lay 
shining in . the firelight in glossy waves. She 
felt a finger laid upon her wrist, she did not see 
whose, for lifting up her head to remove her bon- 
net had brought on such a dizziness that she 
closed her eyes tight, feeling as if she were float- 
ing away into infinity. Then she heard the same 
friendly voice direct Gretchen to fetch him a 
wine-glass full of Monougahela and a spoon, 
after which she felt some drops of the burning 
fluid trickle into her mouth, down her throat, 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


443 


warming up the chilled vitality as it went, and 
quickening her pulse into fuller action. Another 
dose, and the horrible nightmare rolled from her 
senses, a full deep respiration unchained her 
lungs, she could breathe, she could speak; she 
could see that the good Samaritan who had been 
ministering to her was no other than her fellow- 
passenger, who leaned over her, still proffering 
the remedy which had proved so efficacious, and 
persuaded her to swallow yet another teaspoon- 
ful, her lips being still white and trembling. 

“Now you are better, I trust, madam?” he ob- 
served, in the same low, gentle voice. 

“Thanks, yes. But how did it happen?” she 
replied, faintly. 

“The forewheel of the stage suddenly came 
off, but providentially the horses were too tired 
to run off in their scare; and we happened to be 
within a short distance of Fritz Hammel’s tav- 
ern, for which let us be thankful. But are you 
most hurt or frightened? ’ ’ 

“ Both — a little. But how did I get here — no 
— I mean — ” stammered Lucia, remembering 
the strong arms that held her like a child while 
they bore her along through the stormy night. 
“I think I fainted. I am sorry to have given so 
much trouble.” 

“Do not think of that; I am a physician, and 
a Catholic like yourself,” he replied, in a low 
tone, as he handed her her rosary, which had 
dropped from the folds of her veil when they 
took it off. “Where do you feel most hurt? ” 

“Only here,” answered Lucia, with a glow of 
gratitude which brought the roses once more for 
a moment to her cheek. She put up her hand to 
indicate the sore spot. “It is here,” she added; 


444 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


“there seems to be — it is swollen — I don’t 
know — ” She had been feeling the place, run- 
ning her fingers under her hair, when suddenly 
she drew away her hand and looked at it — it was 
covered with blood ! 

“Here, my good Gretchen, have a room pre- 
pared quickly for this lady,” said the doctor; “ I 
fear she is hurt. Then, if you are not afraid of 
the sight of blood, I shall want your assistance.” 

Fritz Hainmel, who had been intent on his 
game of cards with one eye, and on the proceed- 
ings we have described with the other, with 
both ears cocked not to lose a word, laughed 
outright at the idea of his frail, who cut the 
throats of the pigs and sometimes the sheep, be- 
ing afraid of the sight of blood. It seemed a 
very funny idea to him, but a dim sort of per- 
ception dawned upon him that it might not be 
the proper thing to laugh, and he quenched his 
mirth by draining the tankard of its foaming 
cheer. Gretchen flew to obey the doctor’s 
orders; she had known him for years, and she 
knew by experience that he would stand no 
loitering or trifling when there was suffering 
waiting for relief. She soon returned, and with 
her strong arm around Lucia’s waist assisted her 
to a small, scrupulously clean sleeping apart- 
ment, near the public room, where, dizzy and 
trembling with apprehension of she knew not 
what, the frightened girl was glad to lie down 
on the small snow-white bed prepared for her. 
Then the doctor came in, and drawing a morocco 
case from his pocket opened it and took there- 
from a pair of scissors, with which, saying, 
“With your permission, madam,” he severed a 
thick tress of hair from the wound on the side of 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


445 


Lucia’s head, then, sponging the place with 
warm water, he examined it closely, and discov- 
ered that it was only a flesh-wound, which would 
heal without danger of any ill consequence 
whatever. Applying a simple dressing of ad- 
hesive plaster, when all was done, he assured her 
that there was nothing serious in the hurt; an 
artery had just escaped being severed, which 
would have been dangerous had it happened, but 
now she needed nothing so much as a cup of hot 
tea and a good night’s rest, and he hoped she 
would find herself much better in the morning, 
and be able to resume the journey so disagree- 
ably interrupted. Thanking him for all his 
kindness, reticent in expression but never forget- 
ting the exquisite politeness which always gave 
such a charm to her manner, Lucia saw him 
withdraw with a sense of relief. There was 
something masterful tho’ so gentle about the 
stranger, that had a peculiar influence on her; it 
was an irresistible sensation of being governed 
by a stronger will than her own. Perhaps it was 
her nervousness, perhaps weakness, perhaps the 
peculiar circumstances under which she had 
been placed for the last few hours. She was 
grateful to him, but glad when he went away. 
She did not see him fold the long silken tress he 
cut from her head, and lay it carefully in one of 
the compartments of his pocket-book; she did 
not hear him say, “The most perfect face I ever 
saw. I wonder who she is?” 

The next morning the stranger sent in his card 
— “Dr. Roger Dean” — with polite inquiries 
after her health, and to say that if she wished to 
go on to New York, and felt well enough, he 
had succeeded in hiring a sleigh and would be 


446 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


happy to accommodate her with a seat. But 
Lucia felt too languid, too bruised, to continue 
her journey; she needed rest and quiet for a few 
days; and moreover was not willing to place 
herself under further obligations to an entire 
stranger. Besides, no one was waiting for her 
in New York, no one would be disappointed at 
her not coming, no one inconvenienced — and 
what did it matter? She sent Gretchen with her 
thanks to Dr. Dean for his goodness, to say that 
she had determined to remain where she was a 
few days. 

No clue by which he might ever find or know 
her again — and he thought it ungracious that she 
gave neither name nor address in return for his, 
which he considered would have been but com- 
mon courtesy — and he started on his lonely ride 
homeward with a feeling of disappointment bor- 
dering on anger. 

Roger Dean was one of those men seldom at- 
tracted by women, who at the age of thirty had 
never felt the slightest sentiment for one of the 
sex beyond that of friendship. He was en- 
grossed by the profession which he had chosen 
from the noblest and most humane motives; he 
had exhausted by severe study the science of 
medicine, so far as known; he had his theories, 
and sought to develop them for the good of man- 
kind; and although he was accomplished, and 
delighted in aesthetic pursuits when they did 
not interfere with his professional duties, to the 
softer emotions — which like death come once to 
every man not set apart by the special grace of 
a religious vocation — he was a perfect stranger. 
And here, as suddenly as if she had dropped from 
the clouds, came a woman, whom he had never 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


447 


seen before and whom he might never see again, 
to disturb his life, and fill it with shadowy 
regrets for one who had crossed his path like a 
very shadow. 

U I have never felt myself alone,” he mused; 
u but having met this woman, I shall feel alone 
the rest of my life unless I find her again. This 
is one of the mysteries that anatomical research 
fails to fathom, that the deepest philosophy can- 
not explain, that medical science does not pre- 
tend to elucidate. Is it this new thing called 
magnetic attraction ? is it the incomprehensible 
recognition of kindred souls? Pshaw ! here am 
I — who have m&de a jest of them — indulging in 
psychological absurdities, and all through an ac- 
cident.” Then Roger Dean hauled out his book 
of the day before, and buried himself and his 
doubts in the discussion of a new thesis on the 
circulation of the nervous fluids. 


448 


ZOIC’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

SHE “wouldn’t DIE.” 

On Thursday morning, the fourth day since 
the accident, Gretclien came into Lucia’s room 
with a very rueful countenance, to tell her that 
her husband, Fritz Hammel, was going to ’York 
city in his big sleigh to fetch out a supply of 
lager bier and fresh ale for the inn, and “if she 
pleased,” he said, “he could give her a seat.” 
Gretclien, won by the uncomplaining sweetness 
of her guest, as much as by her unquestioning 
liberality, was loth to have her go; but Lucia 
gladly availed herself of the offer, more than 
thankful when he told her in uncouth English 
that he could set her and her trunks down at 
Father Hendrick’s door, which he was obliged 
to pass on his way to the brewery — Father Hen- 
drick being the good priest to whom she had 
letters of introduction. Something rested, but 
not well — full of a strange dizziness, but not ill 
— prevaded by a drowsy indisposition to move 
or think, which medical men call inertia , new 
and alarming to one of her naturally active 
vitality, Lucia thought the sooner she roused 
herself the better; she believed in the efficacy 
of a strong will and persistent energy, and had 
yet to learn the simple lesson so well known to 
the untutored savage, that the string of the bow 
must not be kept overstrained lest it break; and 
that the human system, like any other fine 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


449 


mechanism, will bear so much and no more — 
nature inevitably resenting whatever violence 
may be done to her laws. She had a brave 
heart and a high spirit, as we know, and the 
nobleness of her effort was worthy of the success- 
ful termination she strove for. 

Gretchen begged Lucia, with tears in her big 
blue eyes, as she moved around the sleigh, tuck- 
ing the blankets and buffalo robe around her 
until she was almost hidden among- them, to 
come back in the summer, when it was hot and 
dusty in the city, promising her, besides fresh 
air, an unlimited supply of good things, in the 
shape of fruits, rich milk, and cream. 

“Thanks, Gretchen, I shall surely come,” an- 
swered Lucia, drawing her hands gently from 
the kind Dutchwoman’s crushing grasp. 

The trunks were stowed away under divers 
empty casks; Fritz hauled on his fur-lined 
gloves, pulled the flaps of his cap over his ears, 
and, giving his horse the signal, they started 
with a merry jingling of bells. It was a clear, 
sparkling day; there was not a cloud to be seen 
in the deep blue sky, and every now and then 
when they came to an elevated part of the road 
Lucia saw the distant city, its spires glittering 
in the sunlight, and the bay lying like a faint 
purple mist beyond. She felt revived by the air 
and sunshine, the swift bird-like motion of the 
sleigh, and thought the far-off city looked more 
as if it had a welcome for her, shining there in 
the morning light, than if she had entered it at 
night in the midst of a blinding storm. Then 
she thought of the good Samaritan who had so 
tenderly cared for her the night of the accident, 
and wondered if she should ever meet him again. 
29 


450 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


She thought she should like to do so, just once, 
to thank him for all his goodness, for she had a 
consciousness that she had not been over- gracious 
to him. 

Entering the suburbs of the town, Fritz turned 
into New Street, and in a few minutes drew 
up his horses with a great jingling of their bells 
in front of a small brick house with a huge 
bronze knocker on the door. It took him but 
a short time to lift out Eucia’s trunks and deposit 
them on the stoop of Father Hendrick’s house, 
to give two or three blows with the knocker that 
sounded up and down the street, bringing curi- 
ous faces to the windows round about to see what 
the alarm might be, help Lucia from the sleigh, 
bid her an awkward but honest “Good-bye,” 
mount into his seat and dash off towards the 
brewery — for Fritz was a Dutchman, and never 
meant anything except business in whatever he 
undertook. 

She stood shivering and waiting on the stoop, 
wondering if she would ever get in; then she 
lifted the knocker, and once more signaled for 
admittance, but not so loudly. After the lapse 
of some minutes she heard the sound of shuffling 
footsteps over a bare floor, approaching slowly, 
and the door was opened by an old man, who 
told her, before she asked, that Father Hendrick 
was not at home. 

“May I come in and wait?” Lucia inquired: 
“I have letters for him.” 

“And your trunks too?” he asked. 

“If you please,” she answered. 

The old fellow looked at her over the rim of 
his big horn spectacles, then looked at the trunks, 
and shook his head as if a troublesome doubt 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


451 


was buzzing about in it, and finally told Lucia 
she “had better come in anyhow till Father 
Hendrick got home, which might not be, how- 
ever, till nigh night.” Then he opened the hall 
door wide enough for Lucia to enter, and with 1 
many a wheezy grunt, hauled in the two heavy 
trunks after her; then wiping his face on a blue 
cotton handkerchief he opened the door of a small 
dingy dining-room, whose only redeemable point 
of comfort was a bright fire which brightened 
and warmed it in a way to gladden the heart of 
a half-frozen traveller. There was an old Dutch 
engraving of the “Ecce Homo" hangingover the 
mantel ; a soutane and bonnet carre had been 
thrown as if in haste across the back of a chair; 
and in a recess stood a plain, unpainted book-case 
crammed with volumes on subjects not in keep- 
ing with the hurnble surroundings, unless we 
look at it in the light that humility is the foun- 
dation of all great and good things, as trees 
grow in height in proportion to the depth their 
roots shoot into the earth. There stood the 
small dinner-table, with the remains of a loaf of 
bread and a piece of cold beef upon it, and on 
one side there was a large desk in which doubt- 
less the parish papers were kept. Lucia no- 
ticed all these details in a dreamy way, and 
although they did not in the least interest her, 
she found herself wondering what the good 
clergyman kept in all the drawers of his book- 
case and desk, and if he sat there reading at 
night? She felt very dizzy at times, and was 
not conscious of how time was passing or how 
swiftly, until the door opened and Father Hen- 
drick walked in. He looked surprised for a mo- 
ment to see his dining-room occupied by a 


452 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


stranger, but recovering himself, bowed and 
hoped she had not long been waiting for him. 

“Not very long, I believe. I am a stranger, 
and have brought letters of introduction from 
Father Jannison at St. Inigoes,” she replied, 
listening to her own voice as if it were a mile off. 

“You are very welcome, my child. I suppose 
you are the young lady Father Jannison has 
already written to me about.” 

“I. am Lucia D’Olivieras, my Father,” she 
said in a quiet way. 

“The same. You are heartily welcome, and 
I hope that you are quite well.” 

“Iam well, but believe I have not yet got 
over the fatigue of my long journey.” Then 
Lucia roused herself to tell him when she left 
St. Inigoes, and how she had been delayed on 
the road by the accident to the stage-coach, and 
little by little unfolded to him, in a hesitating, 
disjointed way, her intentions and plans in com- 
ing to New York. Father Hendrick thought 
there was something strange in her manner; but, 
listening with great interest, he made it all out, 
and having scanned her face and read its signs 
with that penetrating insight into character 
which their peculiar and intimate relations with 
mankind give to the Catholic priesthood above 
all others, he saw truth in every line of the fair 
wan face, and also traces of a passionate temper- 
ament held in check by moral and intellectual 
force, and softened not only by the languor of 
her sad eyes, but by an indefinite something 
which asserted the governing influence of a con- 
science without guile. Her weary countenance 
and the refined sensitiveness of every line of her 
face made the good clergyman fear that she had 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


453 


mistaken lier calling, and possessed neither the 
physical strength nor moral courage to brave the 
inevitable trials of the plan of life she had laid 
out for her future. But why discourage her? 
Stormy winds strengthen the roots of the great 
trees, which they seem to threaten with destruc- 
tion — so failure^ and disappointments, instead of 
depressing and prostrating a brave nature, but 
incite it to greater exertion, until success crowns 
its efforts. 

Excusing himself a moment when she ceased 
speaking, Father Hendrick left the room, and 
came back with a glass of wine and a hard bis- 
cuit, which he offered her and insisted on her 
taking, for he had observed how pale and faint 
she grew now and them Conscious of this her- 
self, Lucia accepted the proffered refreshment 
thankfully, while Father Hendrick, resuming 
his seat near her, told her that in accordance 
with the instructions of his friend and hers, he 
had secured a room and board for her with a 
widow lady in reduced circumstances, who 
would be glad to accommodate her if a plain and 
quiet way of living would be agreeable to her. 
This was a great relief to Lucia, and she thanked 
Father Hendrick, saying that all she required 
was a place that she might call “.home,” where 
she might live in the plainest and most retired 
way. 

“Then, my child, it will suit you. Mrs. Von 
Trooinp does not live far from here, and I will 
put on my hat and go there with you. The 
trunks can come afterwards.” 

“Thanks. I shall be glad to go now, but am 
sorry to trouble you. I think I shall feel better 
when I get settled. I have not been much used 


454 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


to going among strangers, and I expect I am a 
little nervous,” said Lucia, with a faint laugh. 

“I hope she is not eccentric,” thought Father 
Hendrick; “there is certainly something pecu- 
liar in her manner.” 

As they walked along, on the way to Mrs. 
Von Troomp’s, Father Hendrick pointed to a 
new church a short distance away, and told 
Lucia that he had just completed the building 
of it. It was very evident that the good clergy- 
man’s heart and thoughts were built up in the 
sacred edifice, from the proud and -happy look 
that beamed on his countenance while surveying 
it. It was quite handsome for the times, and 
the third Catholic church erected in New York, 
standing on the northwestern suburbs, which 
were but sparsely settled, and where most of the 
land belonged to an old fur-trader named Astor. 
The city was by slow approaches moving to- 
wards the pleasant farnis, pasture lands, and 
market gardens of the country even then; later 
it covered the broad fields and waste places with 
dwellings, stores, public buildings and hotels — 
a new city, bewildering in the splendor and num- 
ber of its edifices. 

Fifteen minutes’ walk brought them to Mrs. 
Von Troomp’s house, formerly, in the New Am- 
sterdam days, the country-seat of the old vice- 
regal Governor’s family. The house was simple 
in its construction, a hall running through the 
centre; it was two-storied, and had a Dutch roof 
covered with tiles, and everything around and 
about it was so astonishingly clean and speck- 
less, from the windows to the door-step, from the 
door-step to the gate, where not a twig or dead 
leaf was to be seen in the garden plots on each 


ZOIv’S DAUGHTER. 455 

side the gravelled walk, that Lucia thought of 
the housekeepers of Broeck, in Holland, who re- 
quire people to leave off their shoes on the 
threshold of their doors before they enter, and 
she looked down with dismay at hers, clogged 
up with dirty snow. 

Mrs. Von Troomp — a tall, angular woman 
with a sorrowful face- — opened the door herself, 
and invited them in after a simple and smileless 
greeting, leading the way into the parlor, where 
the old-fashioned heavy furniture and the once 
rich carpet were threadbare and faded from over- 
much cleaning more than from the \ T7 ear and 
tear of time. Nothing could exceed the excess- 
ive primness of the arrangements; while thre^ or 
four ancient portraits of the departed Von 
Troomps, rollicking, fighting old sea-rovers, 
seemed to keep watch and ward over the de- 
cayed fortunes of their once famous house. 
Mrs. Von Troomp, had gray hair, gray eyes; she 
wore a dress of soft gray serge, and had alto- 
gether a severe aspect, as if the years in pass- 
ing had impressed their shadows without their 
sunshine upon her life. 

“This young lady is Miss D’Oli vieras, Mrs. 
Von Troomp, about whom I was speaking to 
you a week ago,” observed Father Hendrick, 
after they were seated. 

“How do you do, Miss D’Olivieras? When 
did you come? ” 

“ I got here about two hours ago, and Father 
Hendrick was good enough to conduct me here.” 

“Would you like to see your room?” 

“When quite convenient to yourself,” an- 
swered Lucia, repelled by her manner. 

“You look sick; that’s the reason I proposed 

it.” 


456 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


“I’m very tired, that is all. I’m really never 
sick.” 

Father Hendrick rose to go, shook hands with 
Lucia, promising to call and see her the follow- 
ing day, and bidding Mrs. Von Troomp take 
good care of her as he shook her hand, went 
away. Mrs. Von Troomp went up stairs to 
light the fire, which was already laid, only 
needing a spark to kindle it into brightness and 
warmth; then, looking with complacency around 
the comfortable apartment, she returned to the 
parlor to conduct her guest to it; but what was 
dismay when the first object that met her eye 
when she opened the door was Lucia’s form, 
pale and unconscious, lying prostrate on the 
floor. 

“Here’s a muck!” exclaimed Mrs. Von 
Troomp, clasping her hands together rigidly, 
and gazing down at the white, beautiful face up- 
turned to hers, with an expression of half terror, 
half surprise in her countenance. “I didn’t 
bargain for this when Father Hendrick and I 
shook hands over the agreement. But she can’t 
lie stretched out like a dead body in my best 
room, and how can I ever get her upstairs with- 
out help? But stop — I’ll get some vinegar and 
try and bring her to,” added Mrs. Von Troomp, 
uttering her thoughts aloud. She went out, and 
returned quickly with a clean towel and the vin- 
egar — none of your modern vinegar, made of 
molasses and water and poisonous chemical acids, 
which turns your pickles and the coatings of 
your stomach to mush at the same time, but 
good, honest, pugent wine vinegar, sharp and 
refreshing to the senses, and wholesome to the 
inner man. She wet the towel with it, and held 


ZOI$’S DAUGHTER. 


457 


it to Lucia’s nostrils, bathed her face, wet her 
white lips, and with gentle hands untied and re- 
moved her bonnet, loosened her dress, wondering 
all the time not only at the young stranger’s ex- 
ceeding beauty, but feeling her heart drawn 
towards her by that bond of great pity which 
only one forlorn human being can feel towards 
another who is in the same case. 

“I’ve nothing to love but my two cats,” she 
presently thought aloud, ‘ ‘ and the good God has 
sent this young girl here to comfort my desolate 
old age, maybe. As to Diva, her head is wooden, 
and she’s so deaf I’d as lief go out and try to 
hold a talk with somebody on the other side of 
the river; but she knows my ways, which is a 
comfort.” 

And all this time, without the most distant 
idea that her soliloquy was in the least funny, 
— for Mrs. Von Troomp did not know what fun 
meant — she continued the application of the vin- 
egar to Lucia’s nostrils, and was presently re- 
warded by hearing her breathe a faint sigh. 

“ Come, Miss D’Oli vieras,” she said, speaking 
in her abrupt, natural manner, ‘ v try and get up 
now, and let me help you up to your room — 
there — -just taste a drop of this vinegar; it will 
revive you.” 

It did revive Lucia, who stood feeble and 
trembling, leaning against Mrs. Von Troomp, 
whose arm was about her, holding her up in 
strong support; and little by little, by her assist- 
ance, she reached her room, where the sunshine 
was pouring into the window, and where a 
bright fire blazed upon the hearth. Everything 
was comfortable and neat beyond measure; the 
brass andirons glittered like gold, the furniture 


45 s 


ZOIC’S DAUGHTER. 


in its high polish showed the result of a century’s 
patient bees-waxing and rubbing; the bed and 
windows were curtained and valanced with white, 
and the former piled up with down-comforters 
in a style truly astonishing. There hung an old 
mirror, with a peacock’s tail drooping over the 
top of it, full of green and gold glitter; and a 
few Scripture scenes as old as the hills, repre- 
senting the garden of Eden with a house in it, 
David’s soldiers with firelocks over their shoul- 
ders and cocked hats upon their heads, and 
Moses leading Israel through the wilderness in 
Hessian boots — all evidently designed at a period 
when the Dutch believed the fashions followed 
by themselves were inherited from these 
worthies. 

“I am sorry to give so much trouble at the 
very first, but I shall be well soon, now that I 
can have rest,” said Eucia, after glancing around 
the pleasant room. 

‘‘Never mind the trouble, young lady,” an- 
swered Mrs. Von Troomp, as she hung Lucia’s 
bonnet and wraps in a large closet; “I only 
want you to feel at home, and get strong.” 

“I shall soon feel at home in this quaint, 
lovely room. I am very glad to be here, and 
thank you for taking me in.” 

“No thanks to me; Father Hendrick is the 
one to thank. I’ll be open with you, Miss 
D’Olivieras; for there never was a Von Troomp 
that sailed under false colors. I am poor, the 
fag-end and the last of a once great and rich 
family; there’s not one of my kith or kin left 
that I know of, and things were beginning to go 
hard with me when Father Hendrick proposed 
your coming to board with me. I objected to it 


ZO£’S* DAUGHTER. 


459 


at first. I was afraid my plain, quiet ways 
mightn’t be agreeable; but he told me enough to 
make me think we might do each other a mutual 
service. You see it is not much, but I hope 
we’ll be friends.” 

“I am sure of it, Mrs. Von Troomp; and I am 
so glad to think my coming is not an annoyance 
to you ! It seems so long since I had a home- 
feeling,” Lucia answered, scarcely able to stand 
for the wavering sensation under hef feet. 

“You are very welcome,” said Mrs. Von 
Troom, never a smile lighting her grim, fune- 
real countenance; “but you must undress and 
get into bed. I’ll lend you a wrapper — never 
mind if it does look as if it came out of Noah’s 
ark; you must get to bed straight away, for you 
look dazed and pale, and your hands are burn- 
ing. Come now. ’ ’ 

And Lucia yielded to these kind suggestions 
without resistance; she really felt too ill to hold 
up her head much longer. 

“Now,” said the grave, cold-looking woman, 
after arranging the pillows comfortably under 
her head, and folding away some of the super- 
fluous comforters; “keep quite still. I’m goifig 
to have a cup of hot coffee and a broiled bird got 
ready for you.” 

And that was the last Lucia remembered: lan- 
guor and drowsiness pervaded her being; she 
looked around, feeling as if she were in a strange 
dream; then she thought she was at “Buckrae,” 
and wondered why she did not hear the boom- 
ing of the surf; then an apathy and indifference 
to everything crept over her senses, and she fell 
into that leaden sleep of unconsciousness which 
is so much like death. 


460 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


When she awoke from it she heard a bird 
trilling somewhere near, and opening her eyes 
she saw it perched upon a spray of inultiflora 
roses in full bloom just outside her window, the 
flowers quivering with the musical vibrations of 
its song; a faint breath of summer air fanned her 
cheeks, and a fragrance of lilacs filled the room. 
She wondered at first where she was, and who 
the gray, grim-looking woman might be who 
sat knitting by a table, on which medicine 
bottles, a watch, a wine-glass and spoon were 
placed; and, above all, what old man it was in a 
brown wig, a brown cut-away coat, brown knee- 
breeches and square-toed shoes with large silver 
buckles upon them, who stood watching her 
and taking huge pinches of snuff. She won- 
dered if she were still dreaming, having no idea 
that she had been seven weeks as one dead with 
a low typhus fever. She thought maybe that 
the comical-looking individual might be the 
ghost of one of the old Dutch Van Troomps, 
come to know what a Spanish girl was doing in 
the bed of one of his descendants; and looking 
steadily into the old brown phantom’s face to 
see if it would melt into thin air, she smiled out- 
right when it bowed to her. 

“Mein Himmel ! dat is goot ! She be’s turnt 
right apout face, my Von Troomp, and is soon 
petter,” he said, waving his hand towards the 
lady sitting at the table. 

“So ! The Blessed Mother of Christ has heard 
our prayers,” answered Mrs. Von Troomp, in 
her unchanging tones. 

“Nonsense mit your prayers! It vas mein 
elixir. But mind, dere must be no talks vot- 
ever; every ting must be as quiet as mices; and 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 


4b I 

you must kill dirty shickens, to make shicken 
jellies and shicken tea, and she must trink a 
vine-glass full every two hours by the clock. 
But mind, no talks — not von word; she’s veak 
here yet,” he said, touching his forehead, as he 
stood by Mrs. Von Troomp, with his back to 
Lucia. “I vill look in to-morrow.” 

Then he ambled out without a sound, and 
went away, more fully convinced than ever that 
his famous medicine, over the preparation of 
which he had spent his best years, was really 
the elixir of life. Mrs. Von Troomp neither 
remonstrated nor smiled at his absurd directions 
about her chickens; she was used to his ways, 
and knew exactly what he meant, besides which 
she had a high opinion of his skill. 

She put down her knitting and went to the 
bedside, where she stood without speaking, look- 
ing into the clear, soft eyes, now full of languid 
life, that were raised with an inquiring expres- 
sion to her own. 

“How do you do?” she at last ventured to 
ask. 

“My head is clear — yes, I feel better — but 
what’s the matter with my wrists and fingers?” 
said Lucia, speaking faint and low, as she held 
up her long, wasted hands and thin wrists, and 
looked at them curiously. “And who is that 
old man?” 

“You must not talk. You have been ill a 
long time; and that is Dr. Siegel, who has been 
attending you.” 

“111! I thought I had just awakened — but 
now I think of it, there was snow upon the 
ground when I fell asleep, and there are roses, 
and I smell lilacs in bloom.” 


462 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


“There! there! not another word! I’m going 
to fetch you some beef-tea. You must keep 
perfectly still; your life depends upon it.” 

“How good you are!” said Lucia, glad of 
knowing once more the keen consciousness of 
existence, and the sense of resting without a 
care or thought of anything. A sweet, solemn 
emotion filled her heart, and she breathed her 
thanksgiving to Him who heareth the unspoken 
language of the soul. 

The fragrance of the lilacs was as balm to her 
senses; the trilling of that bird seemed to her 
the sweetest sound she had ever heard; they 
both brought to her tidings of sunshine — soft, 
perfumed winds, and all the indescribable love- 
liness of early summer; and finally, lulled by 
her own pleasant thoughts, a soft, natural slum- 
ber stole over her, from which she awoke re- 
freshed and collected. 

Gradually and slowly strength and health re- 
turned, and Lucia was able to go one morn- 
ing with Father Hendrick (who had been as 
brother and friend to her during her illness) 
to his church, to try the new organ, which he 
had imported from France, and had just got 
fixed in its place. No one had touched the keys 
of it yet; and when Lucia, playing a selection 
from Palestrina’s grand Mass for St. Sebastian’s 
Day, evoked all the clearness, sweetness, and 
depths of its tones, Father Hendrick felt as if he 
stood on air, so delighted was he, not only over 
his new acquisition, but at her skillful playing; 
and he installed her at once the organist of St. 
Gudule, which made her very happy. 

Dr. Siegel came to see her sometimes, and his 
salutation, “And so! you vouldn’t die, mees!” 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 463 

followed by a great pinch of snuff, always made 
her laugh, which delighted him; for he declared 
he could tell better how people’s blood circulated 
when they laughed than by any other way. 

Two things happened about this time which 
made a ripple in Lucia’s monotonous but restful 
life. The first relieved her of a great weight of 
anxiety, the second not only disturbed but an- 
noyed her. 

She had begun to get a little restive about the 
non-appearance of letters from St. Inigoes; it 
had been nearly two months since the date of the 
last, and probabilities which did not act as seda- 
tives presented themselves to her imagination in 
a way that not unfrequently depressed her. One 
afternoon about five o’clock Lucia went into the 
garden, which was large and old-fashioned, hop- 
ing that the perfume-laden air and the sunset 
view would chase away all bodings from her 
heart. Mrs. Von Troomp called them “cob- 
webs spun by thoughts, like spiders, neither 
wholesome for soul nor body; for,” said the 
practical woman, “when we believe that we and 
our affairs are in God’s hand, we ought to trust 
Him for all; for sufficient for the day is the 
evil thereof.” Mrs. Von Troomp was happily 
exempt from the torments of an imaginative 
temperament, and her plain, matter-of-fact 
method Qf viewing things had already exerted a 
beneficial influence on Lucia’s too great spon- 
taneity of feeling and sentiment. 

Lucia sat down under the wide-spreading 
apple-tree on the west side of the garden, where 
she spent many of her out-door hours; and the 
balmy air, the hum of bees, and the evening 
twitter of countless swallows darting to and fro 


464 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 


through the sunshine, while the tinted apple- 
blossoms drifted down like mimic snow-flakes, 
soothed and uplifted her heart to better thoughts 
than those which only saddened her without 
profit. She was learning slowly the divine 
science of patience. She drew her rosary from 
her pocket, and meditating on the “Mysteries” 
as she dropped the beads one by one, she almost 
realized the joys and sorrows of her gracious 
Protectress, and in spirit shared them devoutly 
with her. 

“ Here’s a letter Father Hendrick sends you,” 
said a gruff voice at her side; “it just come, 
and he made me stop working my cabbage-bed 
to come right off with it.” 

Lucia started, and, looking up, saw Father 
Hendrick’s old major-domo standing near her, 
holding out the letter. 

“Thank you very much for bringing it, 
Hans,” she said, taking it. “ Please tell Father 
Hendrick that I am much obliged to him.” 

“I will. Good-evenin’,” answered Hans, 
stumping off as fast as he could. 

Lucia knew by the cramped handwriting of 
the address that it was from Mr. Allston, and, 
tearing it open, she learned by its contents — 
which were without circumlocution, and to the 
point — that the quadroon Daphne had been 
rescued from her threatened fate, his agent hav- 
ing traced the trader, of whose “gang” she 
formed part, to Charleston, South Carolina, 
where, by paying a premium of five hundred 
dollars above her rated value (which was a thou- 
sand), he succeeded in getting possession of her, 
and embarked with her without delay on board 
an English ship which had just completed her 
load of tar and turpentine, bound for Quebec. 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


465 


“Once on the free soil of Canada, there will be 
no more trouble, particularly as Father Jannison 
had sent a letter to the Gray Nuns for my agent 
to present to them in case our programme could 
be carried out, begging them to take care of the 
girl until further instructions from you. After 
learning of the successful termination of what I 
considered rather a wild-goose chase, I acted on 
what I supposed to be your intention, and rode 
down to ‘Haylands’ to tell the girl’s mother 
what had happened, and that her child was safe. 
Of course she had hysterics, which I don’t pro- 
fess to understand, but I believe she was made 
very happy by the news, for when I passed by 
on my return from a visit to Mrs. Yellott — who, 
it strikes me, is looking ill — I saw her sweeping 
to the music of some fetish hallelujah song she 
was singing at the top of her lungs, and I sup- 
pose she felt in some sort the same elation that 
Miriam did after the dangers of the Red Sea’s 
passage were over. 

“Well, that’s happily over, and I must say, 
my dear young lady, that in my opinion it was 
a very foolish investment — in fact, an unneces- 
sary sacrifice of solid interests to an idea; but 
that’s your lookout, and may it make you 
happy! 

“Now for the rest. I was obliged to go to 
Baltimore about some law business of my own, 
and took your diamonds along to see what they 
were worth; and my old friend, Kirchk, who 
got his trade among the gold- workers of Amster- 
dam, advised me to show them to a diamond 
merchant who was visiting our chief cities in 
the interests of his house in Holland, which 
I did, being introduced the day following by Mr. 
30 


466 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


Kirchk. 'He was struck by the splendor of the 
gems, and understood their value at once, offer- 
ing me ten thousand dollars for the solitaire 
necklace and bracelets, which he said were such 
as only royal personages could afford to wear in 
Europe. I knew nothing about that; but I did 
know that he was taking care of * his own pro- 
spective interests and profits, leaving a fair mar- 
gin for both. However, I thought, with Kirchk, 
that the offer was the best I should probably 
get: and I closed with him. This — the price of 
the diamonds — leaves you (after deducting all the 
expenses about that girl, whom I directed my 
agent not to leave penniless in Quebec) eight 
thousand dollars; also your diamond ear-rings, 
aigrette, cross, and finger-rings, all of which I 
have deposited in the Merchants’ Bank of Balti- 
more, subject to your order, and send check-book 
with this. 

“My good friend Jannison is well, for an old 
man. It is hard, however, for blows such as the 
past year has given him to come upon a man at 
a time of life when even ‘ the weight of a locust 
is a burden.’ 

“Things at ‘Haylands’ are not satisfactory. 
The old woman Chloe has gone, nobody knows 
where. She couldn’t stand the new order of 
things. The gentry of our neighborhood behave 
coldly to Mr. Yellott, notwithstanding his fox- 
hunts, billiards, card parties, and general hilari- 
ous pleasure-making. I suppose it is the blood- 
hounds and the whipping-post. We don’t like 
such things in Virginia, and those ‘to the man- 
ner born’ have no use for them. They don’t 
agree with our sentiments or traditions. The 
fact is, Northern-bred people haven’t an idea of 


ZCUS’S DAUGHTER. 


467 

the management of slaves; they look on them as 
brutes, without sense or soul, who must be 
driven to the death to get their worth out of 
them. 

“I am writing this on Lord Baltimore’s old 
council-table, by which you may guess I am in 
Father Jannison’s parlor, and that he is sitting 
in his arm-chair by the open window, reading 
that perpetual ‘Office’ while I scribble. He 
stops only long enough to ask me to send you 
his love, and say that he will write shortly. 
Accept, my brave young lady, my affectionate 
regards, and believe me ever your true friend, 
Hugh Allston.” 

“I must go straight over to the church and 
offer my thanksgiving to our Blessed Lord and 
His holy Mother, and relieve my full heart by 
singing to her. Oh, I am so very happy !” 
said Lucia, refolding the letter, and running to- 
wards the house, scarcely feeling the ’earth under 
her feet, until she came squarely against Mrs. 
Von Troomp, approaching from an opposite 
direction, and with such force that if the sur- 
prised lady had not thrown her strong arm 
around her she would have fallen backwards. 

“Oh, Mrs. Von Troomp, I have such news 
from home ! ” 

“Take breath, Lucia; I can wait.” 

“But I can’t,” answered Lucia, with a merry 
little laugh. “I’m on my way to St. Gudule to 
offer thanks. The poor girl Daphne, about 
whom I was telling you, has been found and 
rescued, and is now on her way to Canada, to be 
placed under the care of the Gray Nuns at Que- 
bec; and my good friend the lawyer, who at- 
tended to it all for me, writes me word that he has 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


468 

sold some of my mother’s diamonds, and after 
paying all the costs about the girl, he has de- 
posited eight thousand dollars to my credit in 
the bank. Oh, I am so happy about poor 
Daphne and her mother !” 

“And don’t you feel thankful for the money?” 
asked her matter-of-fact friend. 

“I don’t know yet; I fear it will upset some 
of my plans. I hate money, Mrs. Von Troomp. ” 
“Don’t hate money, my child; it does too 
much good in the world, when not abused. 
What would have become of your Daphne with- 
out money? ” replied Mrs. Von Troomp, gravely. 

“Well, then, I shall begin to love it. Here, 
read this letter while I’m over at the church; 
then you’ll understand all about it; and if 
Father Hendrick should happen to come to get 
a cup of tea, give it to him,” answered Lucia 
gayly, placing Mr. Allston’s letter in her friend’s 
hand. 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


469 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE ORGANIST OF ST. GUDUEE’S. 

Lucia’s thanksgiving for the deliverance of 
her protegee was of that spontaneous kind which 
leaves no doubt either of its sincerity or accept- 
ance; but that over, sudden thoughts began to 
overshadow her mind, and she hastened to offer 
the devotion of the Rosary for the friends she 
had left and also for the conversion of the family 
at “Hay lands,” quite losing sight, the while, 
of Jacobi, the half-witted German lad who al- 
ways worked the bellows when she played upon 
the organ. He had seen her as she came to- 
wards the church, and ran to. meet ’her, for he 
thought there could be no business under heaven 
to bring her there except to play upon that won- 
derful instrument which so thrilled him through 
and through with its solemn music that, as he 
expressed it, “he shivered inside.” There he 
knelt in the organ-loft watching Lucia, patiently 
waiting, and hoping every moment that she 
would come, until daylight faded and the purple 
evening shadows stole in, veiling pillar and aisle, 
until the impalpable but gloomy tide reached 
the sanctuary, above which hung the ever-burn- 
ing lamp, whose tremulous white radiance lit up 
the flower-decked altar where the august Pres- 
ence, in whose honor it is lit, is throned in the 
depths of the tabernacle, and drove back the 
shadows, its pale, flickering beams struggling 


47 ° 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


with them, reminding one of the strong and 
mighty angels who adored while they guarded 
the holy places. 

Jacobi could see Lucia distinctly as she knelt 
under the lamp of the Sacrament, her slight, 
graceful figure robed in white, looking like a 
spiritual presence, so immovable and still that 
he began to wonder if it were indeed her living 
self. Then a great fear crept over him, for he 
had heard his grandmother tell strange stories 
of the old Fatherland, on winter evenings, of 
people who had lived all their days haunted 
by a “double,” and of those who had seen 
strange sights from the other world which well- 
nigh crazed them. He wished himself in the 
chimney-corner at home as it grew darker and 
darker around him; but he dreaded to move lest 
it should come and wither him by a touch of its 
ghostly hand; but he crawled as far as the organ, 
where, crouching down between the bellows and 
the wall, he put his head between his knees and 
felt “more better.” 

Presently he heard a voice, very sweet and mu- 
sical to his ear, say : 

‘ ‘ Where are you, J acobi ? Come, I am ready. ’ ’ 

His fears vanished; he sprang to the bellows, 
and in a few seconds the wind went sighing and 
moaning in sad vibrations through the long row 
of gilded pipes, like a prisoned spirit panting to 
be free, and Lucia sat down to the key-board and 
liberated it in symphonies that thrilled the very 
air and filled the whole church with a solemn joy. 

Down through the window of the organ loft 
shone the unclouded moon, newly risen. Its 
beams fell around Lucia like a mantle of silver. 
It lay in a rivulet of brightness upon the floor; 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 471 

overflowed and dropped — a refulgent cascade — 
into the church below, where it rippled and 
danced until nave and pillar were carpeted and 
draped with the white radiance. Then, her 
voice soaring high above the subdued and mel- 
low tones of the organ, Lucia sang - the Ave 
Maris Stella; and as the notes floated out, fill- 
ing the silent church with thrilling sweetness, 
Jacobi declared that there were others, not seen, 
softly singing with her. 

Ah, could the mortal veil have been drawn 
aside but for one moment from the sanctuary and 
the holy place it enclosed, a transfiguration more 
glorious than that seen by Peter and John on 
Tabor would have been revealed on that altar, 
now silent, and, as far as earthly eyes could see, 
lonely and deserted; and the wonder and miracle 
would be, not that the Creator assumed human 
flesh and form, but how He could disguise the 
ineffable glories of His divinity under the hum- 
ble veil of bread. Well for us that faith suffices 
us, lest seeing with our mortal eyes we should 
die. 

A stranger who was passing by St. Gudule’s, 
attracted by the music, entered the door which 
Lucia had not thought to close after her. 
He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, who rev- 
erently uncovered and bowed his head as he 
stood for a moment in the aisle; then he knelt 
in the shadow of a pillar until the melodious 
voice and the low-breathed tones of tjie organ 
fainted, as from excess of sweetness, into silence; 
then he arose, made a reverent genuflection, and 
passing out of the church, waited under the deep 
arch of the doorway to see whose voice he had 
been entranced by. Jacobi came down first, 


472 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


lumbering and stumbling in wooden shoes which 
seemed to threaten the stone steps with swift de- 
struction, his heavy face full of peaceful satis- 
faction, like that of a young child who is pleased 
with sounds it cannot comprehend. 

“Pshaw ! It could not be that lout of a boy,” 
muttered the man, standing farther back in the 
shadow. Then he heard a light footstep, and 
saw the flutter of a white dress descending the 
stairway, then, emerging into the full unclouded 
moonlight, Lucia appeared before him. 

“ At last, and here. Surely Heaven will bless 
such a meeting,” he said, coming forward, hold- 
ing out his hand and speaking rapidly. “ I was 
passing by on my way from the bedside of a 
dying man; I could not recover from the distress- 
ing scene of family grief I was obliged to wit- 
ness, when I caught the sound of the organ, 
while yet some distance off, and it was like a 
whisper of -peace. I hurried my footsteps; the 
door was open, and I went in. Pardon me for 
speaking, but have you quite forgotten your fel- 
low-traveller and the accident near Fritz Ham- 
mel’s tavern?” 

Lucia was frightened at first, but now that 
he stood there, his head uncovered, the moon 
shining full on his clear grey eyes, she knew 
him. It was Roger Dean. A chill thrilled her 
sensitive nerves, and she drew back involuntar- 
ily, for this man had a power over her so subtle 
and so strong that she had hoped never to see 
him again. 

“ You will pardon me for intruding myself,” 
he said, withdrawing his hand, while his coun- 
tenance grew cold and proud. 

“Do not look on it in that light, please. 


zoic’s daughter. 


473 


I did not know you at first. How do you do, Dr. 
Dean?” she said, holding out her hand frankly 
yet timidly. 

He bowed, barely touching it, and hoped she 
had been quite well since her arrival in New 
York. 

“No, I have been very ill; but, thanks to 
God and the care of kind friends, I recovered, 
and am in my usual health. It was a low fever 
of some sort,” she replied, quietly, and still 
coldly. 

“Those low fevers have been very fatal this 
spring. You had a fortunate escape, for but few 
persons who were attacked with them recovered. 
Medical science has not yet found cause or cure 
for them, either certain or satisfactory. But I am 
very glad to see you, Miss — pardon me, I have 
yet to learn your name.” 

“Pardon me for having been so thoughtless 
as to withhold it after that accident and all 
your kindness. My name is Ducia D’Olivieras,” 
she answered, simply. 

“Thank you, Miss D’Olivieras. I little knew 
when I heard the sound of the organ, and when 
nearer, the voice, that they were bringing me to 
the presence of one whom I had given up all 
hope of meeting again,” he said gravely. 

“Thanks for your kind remembrance.” Iyucia 
said carelessly. 

“I knew that it could not be the voice of 
‘false Lorelie’ calling to me from St. Gudule’s, 
and I came.” 

“I did not call you, Doctor Dean,” she said 
involuntarily, as she drew her mantle around 
her, preparatory to going. 

“No, you did not intend to, I know; but I 


474 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


came in obedience to a mysterious impulse, as if 
answering the sounds. But do you live here- 
abouts, Miss D’Oli vieras?” 

“I live at Mrs. Von Troomp’s — -just over there. 
And I must bid you good evening, as it is much 
later than I expected to stay. ’ ’ 

“Mrs. Von Troomp has known me and been 
my friend since I was a lad. May I ask permis- 
sion to call ? ’ ’ 

“Mrs. Von Troomp will be glad to see you, 
Doctor Dean, I make no doubt,” answered Bucia; 
then, fearful he might think her guilty of rude- 
ness, she added: “and I also.” 

“ Thank you; without that I should not have 
come,” he replied; the brusqueness of his words 
softened by the grave and singular calm of his 
manner and voice. 

He was walking now by her side as she went 
homeward. Jacobi had slipped off sometime be- 
fore, afraid of losing his supper of brown bread 
and schmeer-case , a thing which always went 
hard with him, for the weakness of his intellect 
was made up by the capacity of his stomach. 
Bucia remained silent; the presence of this man 
disturbed her, and she wished him gone. 

“ You must have had great advantages in your 
musical education, Miss D’Olivieras? ” he said 
presently. 

“Yes, many, and more than usual,” she re- 
plied, her thoughts flying back with the swift- 
ness of light to ‘ Haylands ’ and the dear master 
who had guided and cultivated her talent for 
music, not only discriminatingly, but with rare 
ability. “I lived abroad several years, and in 
Italy and Germany studied under the best 
masters,” she continued, “and whatever excel- 
lence I have attained is due to them.” 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


475 


“It is a great gift. I am passionately fond of 
music, but with no more idea how to express it 
in harmony” — At this instant an ass which 
had been quietly cropping grass and thistles by 
the light of the moon, not far off, brayed as only 
these animals can, with a suddenness and pro- 
longed vibration both startling and ridiculous — 
“than that,” continued Roger Dean, adopting 
the opportune example. 

“It is a great deal, I think, to have even the 
faculty to enjoy music. Our hearts are very often 
full of beautiful things which, by some natural 
idiosyncrasy, we cannot express. Men can have 
the poetic temperament who could not achieve a 
line of poetry to save their lives — why not the 
same of music?” replied Lucia, glad to find her- 
self nearing home. 

“Yes, there’s unwritten poetry and unwritten 
music both in the nature of some people, which 
is known only by their keen relish for both, and 
which but for an incompleteness in their organ- 
ization, somewhere and somehow, would aston- 
ish the world. Such undeveloped genius re- 
minds me of an imprisoned spirit expiating the 
great revolt, yet full of the memories of the 
heaven from which it fell, and patient in the hope 
of final restoration. How it would soar, singing 
the unforgotten harmonies to a listening world, 
could it only go free. But silence is part of the 
expiatory ordeal — it can only listen and be 
thrilled while others sing — this is the only joy it 
knows in its exile of loss.” 

“How strange,” thought Lucia, “that he 
should express the very ideas I had when I first 
began to play to-night.” It affected her un- 
pleasantly, and she made no answer; indeed, 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


476 

none seemed necessary, for he had spoken as if 
his thoughts had found spontaneous utterance, 
and Lucia lifting her eyes for the first time to his 
face saw that his were looking far away, full of 
an expression that made them luminous under 
the evenly-arched black eyebrows. 

“And now good-night, Miss D’Olivieras,” he 
said, lifting his hat as Lucia stopped at the gar- 
den gate ; “in a day or two I hope to avail my- 
self of your permission to call.” 

“ Do so whenever it may be agreeable to you, 
Dr. Dean; — good-night,” she answered, go- 
ing in. As she ran up the gravelled walk to- 
wards the stoop, a great spray of tea-roses, heavy 
and glistening with dew, caught in a loose braid 
of her hair, sprinkling her face, and anointing 
her senses at the same time with their spicy 
aroma. Full blown, half blown, and several 
not yet liberated from their swaddling bands of 
green, they were fair to behold, and Lucia 
laughed a pleasant heartfelt little laugh as she 
gently disengaged them and held them caress- 
ingly against her cheeks and lips. “You are so 
lovely,” she said, “that I shall honor you by 
offering you to our Blessed Lady the first thing 
in the morning; so gather more dew and waste 
none of your sweetness, that you may grace her 
shrine, for you know that she is the Mystical 
Rose of which you are the symbols.” 

“It is very late for you to be out, and the dew 
falling,” the harsh voice of Mrs. Von Troomp 
was heard saying. Lncia looked up smiling, 
for she knew by this time that the voice was no 
indicator of the heart; it was like an old clock 
she had once seen and laughed at, whose hands 
were always exact to the minute, but which no 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


477 


human skill could induce to strike the hours 
correctly. Mrs. Von Trootnp was standing upon 
the stoop, and looked like a grim gray ghost in 
the moonlight. 

“It is late, but the moon shone so brightly I 
was scarcely conscious of the time until I came 
out of church, where I got to playing on the or- 
gan ; then when I was coming away I met a gentle- 
man at the door — the gentleman who took care 
of me when the stage broke down — who says he 
is a friend of yours.” 

“Friend of mine? What is his name? You 
have never mentioned his name yet.” 

“Have I not? His name is Dean — Dr. Roger 
Dean.” 

“Gott!” Mrs. Von Troomp inherited this 
word; it was the only figment of ancestral Dutch 
that she held to, finding it convenient as a 
safety-valve for an occasional emotion when it 
came, — when things got too much for her it was 
all she said, «nd like a puff of smoke from an en- 
gine her excitement subsided. “But come in. 
Your dress feels quite damp, and your hair,” 
she said, passing her large-jointed hand gently 
over Lucia’s head; “why it is absolutely wet.” 

“The tea-roses out there welcomed me with a 
shower as I came up the walk,” said Lucia, 
laughing and following her in. 

“You must take care of yourself. I’m glad 
you met Roger Dean. I’ve known him, man 
and boy, twenty years, and I have yet to hear an 
ill thing of him. He’s got to be a great man — 
rich he’ll never be — he spends too much of his 
time going to see patients who never pay him a 
cent. He says that it does pay, for they give 
him experience, ideas in his profession, and an 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


478 

insight into diseases which leads to great dis- 
coveries. That’s the way he puts it — but that is 
not the whole of it. He could find out enough 
without spending himself in the fever hospitals, 
and among the poor from Dan to Beersheba; it’s 
his humanity and goodness of heart that makes 
him do it. That’s the secret. I scolded him 
well one day about his improvidence, but he 
said, ‘I can’t eat more than I want, or wear 
more clothing than I need; I can’t sleep in but 
one bed at a time or occupy but one room at a 
time, and what 'good on earth would a surplus 
do me? I wouldn’t be bothered with it; it 
would interrupt my career, which must not be 
clogged with sordidness, and would take from 
those who need it more than I do.’ That’s his 
logic, and I think there’s a great deal of foolish- 
ness mixed up with it; and now you see tho’ he is 
great and good, he is also very improvident. It 
was just like him, taking care of you as he did 
when that accident happened,” said Mrs. Von 
Trooinp, putting more words together at one time 
than she generally uttered in a month. 

“He must be very benevolent. What a pity 
he should be eccentric,” said Lucia. “But I 
really feel very hungry; may I have some sup- 
per ? ’ ’ 

“Of course. I haven’t eaten mine yet. It’s 
all waiting.” 

“Oh, dear Mrs. Von Troomp, pardon my 
thoughtlessness; why did you wait ? ” 

“I felt lonesome. Here’s the tea boiling over 
this contrivance — one of Roger Dean’s inven- 
tions, and a useful thing too, for I have only to 
light the little spirit-lamp under it and I can 
really cook my breakfast over it without any 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


479 


heat or fuss this hot weather. And here’s some 
fresh cookies Diva made to-day; and there by 
your plate is a lettuce-leaf full of my first straw- 
berries. ” 

“What a lovely feast! and such bread and 
butter, and cream with it all ! I’m afraid you’ll 
make an epicure of me, giving me so much that 
is nice always. These strawberries, so large and 
beautiful, ought not to be eaten, but put under 
a glass case,” said Lucia, drawing up her chair. 

“ They would lose their beauty in a day under 
a glass case. Bat them, my dear. I thought 
you’d enjoy them.” 

“This Dr. Dean, your friend, you know, is 
coming to see you,” said Lucia, taking up one 
of the great crimson strawberries at a time, to 
enjoy its size and beauty before eating it. 

“A visit from him is a great favor. He 
wouldn’t go to see King George himself just to 
pay an idle visit. I wonder what brings him? ” 

“I suppose he goes to see an old friend some- 
times, though?” 

“He doesn’t have time. What with his pa- 
tients and the books he’s writing about bones 
and nerves, he hardly has time to breathe. But 
where did you meet him to-night?” 

“ He was standing at the church door when I 
came down from the organ loft, where I had 
been playing and singing; he recognized me 
and spoke, then walked home with me.” 

“ So. He’s a very devout Catholic. He very 
often stops at St. Gudule’s to say his prayers 
when he’s up at this end of the town.” 

Lucia made no reply, but went on with her 
supper; she had heard enough of Dr. Roger Dean, 
the very thought of whom gave her a feeling of 
unrest. 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


480 

Her head was full of busy thoughts that night, 
which kept her awake until the “wee sma’ 
hours.” The unexpectedly large sum Mr. Alls- 
ton got for her diamonds, which were worth a 
third more had she tho’ known it, and the bal- 
ance placed to her credit in the Baltimore bank, 
would yield her a certain tho’ moderate income, 
and enable her to carry out a plan she had been 
thinking over, aided by her salary, (one hundred 
and fifty dollars,) which she received as organist 
of St. Gudule’s. Besides this she made up her 
mind to try and get two music pupils as a sort 
of reserve fund for contingencies. 

It may appear strange that one reared as Lucia 
D’Oli vieras had been, with the indolent blood 
of the tropics in her veins, and naturally dis- 
posed to dreaminess and inertia, should be so 
practical and possessed of so intense a desire to 
have an aim in life fruitful of good to others. 
But let it be remembered that that the spirit of 
the Catholic religion is antagonistic to nature 
and all vapid indulgence, and Lucia was not 
only a devout, but also a spiritual-minded 
Catholic. Ever since her visit — spoken of in her 
journal — to the Hospice of the Great St. Ber- 
nard, where she had seen men who for the love 
of God did violence to nature by sacrificing all 
lawful ease, and who devoted themselves to the 
sublimest acts of heroic charity in a region of ice 
and snow far above the habitations of men — 
where the blood, gradually impoverished by the 
excessive cold, soon becomes incapable of sup- 
porting life, where all that was done at the peril 
of limb and life was done for strangers as for 
brethren — she felt smitten by the waste of her 
own existence and its rich opportunities for 


ZOIS’S DAUGHTER. 


481 

benefiting others; and full of noble zeal, full 
of ardent purpose, she made a vow before the al- 
tar of St. Michael the Archangel, whose strong 
help she implored, to devote a portion of her 
time and means hereafter, and so long as she 
lived, to saving both morally and physically the 
lost and perishing. This was the motive of her 
good work at “Haylands:” it had led to the 
study of solid books on the best methods of re- 
lieving the needy; humanitarian essays were 
never passed over unread, and when to these 
grave studies she applied the holy lessons taught 
by her faith, it began to grow clear to her how 
she might best carry out her purpose, and it was 
all simplified by that emphatic Gospel maxim : 
“ Do the work thy hands find to do.” All this 
blossomed out in the practical effort at “Hay- 
lands,” — an effort considered eccentric by those 
who did not understand it; and in the adversities 
which came so suddenly upon her, her greatest 
grief was that she would be compelled to relin- 
quish this as well as many other of her humane 
designs. But here all at once, by a breath of 
Divine Providence, the clouds were driven from 
her path, leaving her free to do the work her 
hands found to do; it might be little, but she 
would do that little to the best of her ability, 
looking forward to the harvests, which, by the 
immutable laws of both moral and physical life, 
spring from the smallest seed. 

She had noticed the large numbej of children 
scattered over this tliinly-settled^suburb, and 
ascertaining that the greater part of them were of 
Catholic parentage, she determined, with Father 
Hendrick’s approbation, to collect them every 
Sunday afternoon before Vespers and teach them 


482 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


the Catechism and the rudiments of a plain 
education. There was only one public school 
then, and but few of any other sort — and these 
last were so expensive as to be quite beyond reach 
of the poor. 

Full of her plan, and very happy in its antici- 
pation, she arose early, and gathering a small 
basketful of tea-roses and carnations — both 
sparkling with dew, and rich in fragrance — she 
hastened to St. Gudule’s to arrange them on altar 
and shrine, hoping there would still be time to 
see and speak with Father Hendrick before Mass. 
But she had scarcely given the last touch to her 
devout work before Father Hendrick — preceded 
by his little acolytes — came to celebrate the 
Divine Mysteries. 

When Mass was over Lucia waited on the 
church steps until he came out. Always glad to 
see one in whom he felt a most friendly interest, 
he greeted her kindly; and as they walked on 
together Lucia told him all about the letter she 
had received the day before, and with modest 
reserve explained to him the plan she had in 
view. His face lit up with a pleasant glow; he 
stopped, and, lifting his bonnet carre , looked up- 
wards for an instant, and murmured “ Deo 
gratias . ” Then he congratulated her heartily 
on the good news she had received, and told her 
something which explained his emotion. A 
Sunday-school was an idea he had long cher- 
ished; but having no one to assist him, his 
heavy duties not allowing him to attempt it 
alone, he had occupied himself in praying for 
the blessing of God 011 his intention. “My 
Mass was offered this very day for this object, 
and I had made up mind to begin, and trust to 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


483 


Providence for the result. Now see! my prayers 
are answered! Deo gratias , again and again, 
forever!” he said with feeling. 

“Oh I am so glad. Father Hendrick!” said 
Lucia — her face glowing with pleasure and her 
eyes beaming with fine enthusiasm. “I can’t 
tell you how very happy this makes me.” 

“And me too, my child. I’ll go up and down 
this very day beating up recruits. Oh, these 
children have given me many a heart-ache.” 

“I have for some time had an idea in my head 
that to do the most solid and lasting good it is 
best to begin at the very foundation of society, 
as a builder begins at the foundation of the edi- 
fice he is going to build first. The little out- 
casts, the children of the very poor, the waifs of 
the gutters, become men and women, citizens — 
and if they grow up educated only in vice and 
immorality, it is easy to predict their career and 
the trouble they will give to the good order of 
the community. Alas! I cannot do much, but 
I’ll do the little I can to avert some of the evil, 
with hearty good will and a strong desire to 
succeed,” said Lucia, speaking her thoughts 
in a manner unusual to one of her reticent 
habit. 

‘ ‘ That is the true principle to go on, my child ! ’ ’ 
returned Father Hendrick, delighted. “It is, 
after all, the condensed wisdom of the science of 
political economy, to say nothing of the laws of 
religion and morality, to begin work at the 
foundation of the social order, if we are to hope 
for the coherence of the structure built upon it. 
It is but little either philanthropy or religion 
can do to overcome the evils of the present; it is 
the children we want — the children of this gen- 


484 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


eration, who will be the men, women and citi- 
zens of the next, who must be educated up to 
their obligations to both God and man. ‘ Bring 
us the little children of Jerusalem, that they 
may be instructed in knowledge, sit at the king’s 
table, and be reared among the princes ; ’ and I 
venture to promise,” said Father Hendrick, 
glowing with his subject, “that children thus 
trained in the royal school of religion and wis- 
dom, may, when arrived at man’s estate, be 
trusted with the destinies of nations. My .God! 
when I think of the little neglected children 
everywhere on earth upon the white pages of 
whose lives are written want, premature sin, a hea- 
thenism worse, far worse, than that enlightened 
by the laws of Confucius — crime, ignominy, and 
at last the eternal loss, I am appalled! I tremble 
before God, who will demand their souls of us.” 

Lucia was much affected by the force of 
Father Hendrick’s words and the pathos of his 
manner; she felt in her soul that it was the 
truth — not in the abstract, but a living, sorrow- 
ful truth he uttered. 

“There were two men known to me,” he 
went on, “to whom I intended speaking this 
very week, each of them occupying an extreme 
point in the social order, who would have been 
everything to us in a plan like this; one of 
them a plain, practical, religious man, of no 
education, and working hard at his trade to sup- 
port his family; the other a man of high posi- 
tion and genius,, possessed of the broadest prin- 
ciples of benevolence, but without a moment of 
time that he can call his own. The first, my 
child — God rest his soul! — fell from the roof of a 
house day before yesterday, and was so horribly 


ZOIS’s DAUGHTER. 


485 


mangled that he did not survive the night; the 
other, a distinguished physician — Dr. Roger 
Dean — who happened to be passing at the mo- 
ment, would have t ake n him to his hospital, but 
the poor fellow plead^so hard to be brought to 
his home that Dr. Dean lifted him into his own 
chaise and, supporting him in his arms, ordered 
the driver to go slowly until they got to it — over 
there near St. Gudule’s — and did not leave him 
until all was over. These two men could have 
helped me greatly by working for the same ob- 
ject, for each represented a class jealous of the 
other: the poorer class jealous of the interference 
of their superiors — the richer and higher class 
jealous of what they call the exacting demands 
of their less fortunate brethren. Now I hoped 
to bring something good out of these two anti- 
thetical types, with natural intelligence, plain 
common sense, strong religious faith on one side; 
position, influence, genius, boundless hum'diYity, 
and a true faith 011 the other — but Provident 
deprives us of these helps, sending you, however/ 
my child, just at the critical moment, to help me 
in the object of my wishes and prayers. 0 - We 
must work with a will, and I hope yet to^get Dr. 
Dean’s assistance; I do not by any means give 
him up.” 

“I shall be ready on Sunday afternoon, Father 
Hendrick,” said Lucia, who could not help 
wondering when she would ever hear the last of 
Roger Dean, while at the same time she was 
conscious of an importunate demand on her best 
feelings to respect and honor one of whom so 
much good was said. 

Father Hendrick left her at Mrs. / Von 
Troomp’s gate, and she ran in, just as that lady 


ZO&S DAUGHTER. 


486 

was sitting down to breakfast. She looked so 
blooming, so lovely and happy, that Mrs. Von 
Troomp would have smiled when she bade her 
“Good-morning,” had she not forgotten how; 
but she was kind in her grim way, which meant 
more than most people’s smiles. Then Lucia 
told her of what had passed between Father 
Hendrick and herself, which plunged her into 
deep thought — the best education of the lower 
classes, in her estimation, consisting in putting 
them early to some honest work and keeping 
them at it; and I’m afraid, although she didn’t 
say so, that she thought the good priest and 
Lucia both a little crack-brained on the subject, 
but hoped their plans would at least result in 
saving her apples and other fruit from the little 
urchins who sometimes robbed her garden. 

After breakfast Dr. Siegel came in, brown as 
ever in his attire, and taking snuff vigorously as 
he walked through the hall. He would not sit 
down — he was in a great hurry — he only wanted 
to know if Mrs. Von Troomp could tell him 
where he might obtain the services of an exper- 
ienced nurse. Lucia was sitting in the door of 
a small room adjoining the breakfast room, 
which opened into the fairest part of the old- 
fashioned garden, reading and enjoying the 
fragrance of the flowers and the balmy south 
wiud which drifted the rose T leaves and fruit- 
blossoms in beautiful showers, until she thought 
how sweet it must be to them to perish amidst so 
much brightness “and perfume. Dr. Siegel’s 
harsh voice arrested her attention, and she heard 
a conversation between himself and Mrs. Von 
Tropinp, which amused and somewhat startled 
her. 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


487 


“I vant a goot nurse for my patient, who I 
belief is going to die in spite of mein elixir. 
She is shnst eaten up mit cancer.” 

“Why don’t you cut it out then?” asked Mrs. 
Von Troomp. 

“Mein dear Von Troomp, I vould have to 
cut her all up in bits; and that vouldn’t help 
mooch, you know. She’s got it through and 
through her.” 

“ Has she got no daughters — no friends ? ” 

“Veil, she had, I reckon; but the pest of 
friends hate their oder friends when they get so 
pad sick that nobody can sleep or do nothing. 
I do. Now apout the nurse.” 

“ I don’t know of one. But where are the 
woman’s daughters?” 

“ How my dear Von Troomp do return to the 
charge! My patient have two daughters, but 
she left ’em homevere she come from; she did 
not vant them to know she have so horrible a 
disease. She heard about mein elixir, and comes 
to me to be cured', but I don’t think I can do 
noting for her.” Here Dr. Siegel took a huge 
pinch of snuff in his perplexity. 

“What’s her name?” 

“ It won’t help her, my Von Troomp, for yon 
to know.” 

“ It might, if I hear of a nurse.” 

“Veil, if you hear of a nurse, sent her to 950 
Stadt street, and tell her to ask for Dr. Siegel’s 
patient.” 

“You’d better cut the cancer out, and be done 
with it.” 

“Mein Gott! my dear Von Troomp, I never 
cuts into live flesh; I am not a — vhat do you 
call it? — a putclier. I have my famous elixir, 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


488 

dat if it don’t cure, never, never kills. If you 
vill have my patient from Firginia cut up in 
pieces, send your goot friend Dr. Dean; he don’t 
mind carving up peoples like shickens.” 

“He knows what he’s about when he does 
cut, anyhow,” answered Mrs. Von Trooinp, 
curtly. 

“I must go. Give my loaf to Mees Lucia. 
Good by, my dear Von Troomp,” replied the 
old doctor, marching out, snuffing all the way. 

“Well,” thought Lucia, “it is refreshing to 
hear somebody abuse Dr. Dean. I’m afraid I 
enjoy it. But who can this lady be? Two 
daughters ; her home in Virginia ; a disease she 
is keeping secret from her nearest friends ! Good 
heavens!” said Lucia as a sudden thought 
dawned upon her, “suppose it should be Mrs. 
Yellott! And yet, after all, how unlikely!” 
But this idea gave Lucia no rest ; she remem- 
bered Mrs. Yellott’ s sudden and violent attacks 
of agony, how ill she frequently looked, and how 
she evaded and tried to cover up the cause of her 
illness; and she determined to try and find out ii 
indeed it were she who was ill, and suffering 
without the consoling presence of friends or kin- 
dred near her. 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


489 


CHAPTER XVI. 

HIGH TIDE ON THE SAI/T MEADOWS. 

The want of a school of some sort in the 
neighborhood of St. Gudule’s had for a long time 
been more felt than expressed by the parents of 
the numerous children who were growing up 
thereabouts in ignorance, but not lazily — for most 
of them were of that plodding Dutch stock in 
whose nostrils idleness is an offence past pardon, 
and this army of boys and girls had work enough 
of one kind and another to keep them from eat- 
ing the bread of the slothful, some of them being 
employed in the mills, some at the brick-vards, 
some at the farms near by, while many, especi- 
ally the girls, had domestic industries to assist 
in which kept them busy from sunrise to sunset. 
But the parents of these children didn’t like to 
see their fine healthy boys and girls growing 
up not to know one letter from another; they 
couldn’t afford to send them to the “pay schools,” 
and the only public school then in New York 
was so far off from their district that they would 
have lost one-third of the day going to and from 
it. They wanted a night-school, so that the 
children would lose no time from their daily 
avocations — but Dr. Dean told them plainly that 
he would have nothing to do with a night-school 
for young growing children, who required re- 
creation, rest and plenty of sleep after working 
all day. So the Sunday-school just fitted the 


490 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


notch of everybody’s requirements, and there 
was a larger attendance of children when it 
opened than Father Hendrick expected — not 
only Catholic children, but many little Luth- 
erans also. 

Mrs. Von Troomp was greatly interested; for 
she believed firmly in the old text over which 
her knuckles used to be cracked when she was a 
child for not dotting her i’s and crossing her t’s — 
“As the twig is bent, so the tree is inclined” — 
and she took charge of a class, greatly awing the 
little folk by her grim, gray aspect, which they 
found out in time had nothing to do with her 
kindly heart — dogs and children are quick at 
reading this riddle, which so often baffles the 
efforts of the more intelligent. The widow of 
the poor fellow who was killed, Lisbeth Jansen, 
took a class of the smallest children, by Father 
Hendrick’s desire; Lucia had two classes under 
her care, while Father Hendrick superintended, 
instructed them all in Christian doctrine, and 
worked indefatigably. On the first Sunday 
everything was organized, and henceforward, 
with but few drawbacks not worth mentioning, 
yielded a harvest of good. 

It is an awful reflection that a single sin Qroes 
on ad infinitum — yielding evil influence and bad 
fruits, until the day of doom; but let it comfort 
us to know that good works are also fruitful unto 
the end. One child taken from the gutter and 
saved by Christian charity is the beginning of a 
new generation born unto God; a kind word, 
Christian help that saves a despairing soul, is 
a good that spreads itself through the ages, its 
results never waning until time shall yield its 
solemn trust to eternity. 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


491 


The little German and Dutch Americans 
brought to the school with them their national 
love of music. The organ was a great attraction 
and delight, and when Lucia taught them some 
simple little hymns, led by her own rich voice 
and accompanied by its full rolling tones, they 
were almost beside themselves with delight, and 
gave their voices full rein. Then Father Hend- 
rick established what he called the “Children’s 
Mass,” which was celebrated on Sunday morn- 
ings at six o’clock, when they sang the Litany 
of Loretto and one or two hymns, to the music 
of the organ, for Father Hendrick wished to 
make this Mass particularly attractive to them — 
a purpose in which Lucia fully sympathized and 
aided by her presence. It was a lovely sight on 
Feast days and the Monthly Communion to see 
this troop of children — the girls dressed in white, 
wearing white veils over their heads; the boys 
clean and orderly, each wearing a little knot of 
white ribbon pinned on the left side of their 
jackets — all of them carrying clusters of flowers 
in their hands — filing into St. Gudule’s to lay 
their floral offerings upon the steps of the altar 
of the Mother of Jesus until they were literally 
covered with bright-tinted blossoms and the air 
redolent of fragrance, then take their places to 
assist devoutly at the Holy Mysteries and receive 
in turn the Bread of Life. To complete all 
these arrangements had given Lucia constant 
occupation, mentally and bodily; and although 
there were seasons when, had she been idle, a 
deep despondency would have settled on her, 
she shook off the depressing influences, and, by 
engaging in some work of mercy, or walking to 
some distance to inquire about the absence of 


4Q2 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


one or more little truants, or going- down to the 
business streets to make a few trifling purchases 
or buy a piece of music, recovered her balance, 
which although it could not restore happiness, 
made her stronger to bear its loss and gave her 
tranquility. It was a noble struggle she was en- 
gaged in, and bravely she fought the good fight, 
sowing good seed in the furrows made by suffer- 
ing, which would bear no perishing blossoms or 
fruits. 

There was a haunt about a mile away to 
which she was particularly fond of going for the 
sake of the view, which she enjoyed from a 
high elevation commanding a wide area of 
scenery. The spot was shaded by a few great 
trees, mountain ash and hemlocks, and there 
was a moss-grown stump which afforded a com- 
fortable seat. It was pleasant to sit there rest- 
ing after the long walk, and look down at the 
long low stretch of salt-meadows which stretched 
along the eastern side of the island, dotted with 
huts and shabby tenements belonging to fisher- 
men and the very poor, all roughly put together, 
but whitewashed and showing prettily through 
the willows and alders that grew luxuriantly in 
the moist soil and shaded the humble homes 
from the intense heat of the noon-day sun. 
There were cows always feeding or lying about 
in groups lazily chewing the cud, and flocks of 
sheep looking like white daisies as they nibbled 
the rich green of the salt pasture, while several 
wind-mills added no little to the picturesqueness 
of the scene. Beyond this rolled the majestic 
river, filled with crafts of the toilers of the sea, 
their white sails spread to the winds and sun- 
shine until they looked like reflections from the 


493 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 

pearly clouds floating in the blue depths above 
them; far out the distant outline of the bay faded 
into a misty indistinctness; and although it 
was beyond Lucia’s ken, she knew that the 
ocean was there, embracing and absorbing the 
bright waves that chased each other wildly and 
brightly towards it. She loved to sit there, 
sometimes reading but oftener thinking and giv- 
ing play to her imagination, as her eyes rested, 
never weary, on the beauties spread in such a 
living panorama before her; and that she might 
consecrate in a way her enjoyment, she had 
found out, through a little girl from whom she 
bought marsh-pinks one day, a poor old bed-rid- 
den woman whom it was in her power to assist 
and comfort in various ways. 

One day — a day on which she expected letters 
from Virginia and none came— she began to feel 
the presence of the bete noir of her life making 
heavy the atmosphere around her; she felt its 
pressure upon her heart and brain, and she heard 
the coming floods of the past drawing near and 
still moire near. She knelt before her oratory 
and prayed the Mother of Sorrows for help; then 
she put on her hat and a light summer cloak and 
walked swiftly down towards the salt-meadows. 
She reached the spot, feeling already better, and 
was glad to rest on her favorite seat; but pre- 
sently while watching the level sun-rays as they 
burst out fitfully from behind masses of clouds 
that were scudding in from the north-east, she 
imagined that the river was unusually high, and 
noticed that the cattle seemed disturbed and 
were running to and fro as they sometimes do 
when a storm is brewing. But there were no 
indications of one, except the ragged dark 


494 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


clouds which hung low and looked like fragments 
drifted from a spent gale: far above them the 
pearly cirri stretched in fantastic shapes of 
beauty, a true sign of good weather, and as the 
sun sunk lower they were all lit up so splendidly 
by his parting rays that it seemed as if the 
heavens were rolling back their gold-fringed 
curtains that the earth might for once have a 
glimpse of the glories that the eye of man hath 
not seen. The river was not rough, the wind 
not heavy, but there was no mistaking the fact 
that there was an unusually high tide. Lucia, 
dreading nothing, but wishing to see the river 
from another point, walked some little distance 
nearer towards it, and seeing a man from one of 
the brick-yards in the road, she called to him 
if there was anything amiss down there in the 
salt-meadows. 

“ No, madam,” said the man, shading his eyes 
with his hand and taking a long look at the 
meadows and river. “It’s only a tide that’s a 
little higher’n or’ nary. It do come up into the 
mashes that way sometimes, and the cattle gets 
kinder skeered when they feels the water on 
their huffs.” 

“Does it ever do any damage to the houses 
down there?” asked Lucia. 

“ Bless you, no!” replied the man, with a grin; 
“it washes the floors sometimes; what the dirty 
jades won’t do for themselves, Providence does, 
when once in a way the high tides comes. No 
madam, there’s no fear of them.” 

“Thank you. I hope no harm will come to 
them,” answered Lucia. 

The man nodded, and swinging his dinner- 
bucket gaily he hurried past to his own home, 


zoic’s daughter. 


495 


farther back on the higher lands: he had no time 
to be bothering himself about high tides and the 
poor lot living down there in the “salt mashes;” 
he wanted to get home to his supper, and have 
a chat and romp with his wife and children after 
he ate it, then smoke his pipe at the door of his 
clean cottage, while she, his comely wife, hav- 
ing put the noisy youngsters to bed, sat near 
him patching and darning the coarse family gar- 
ments, while they talked together over the pur- 
chase of another acre to add to their garden — the 
object of their great ambition. 

By the time Lucia got home it was quite dusk, 
but the twilight was full of fragrance under the 
dews, and she sauntered slowly in, unwilling to 
lose a breath of it. As soon as she entered the 
house a heavy perfume of violets welcomed her — 
strong, odorous, and full of the spicy aroma, 
which is always like an intangible presence in 
the air. Lucia knew that Mrs. Von Troomp was 
in her rocking-chair near the door opening into 
the garden; she always sat there through the 
twilight — not sleeping, but what she might be 
thinking or dreaming about no one ever asked 
or knew — only when the lamp was lit, if any one 
had been there to notice it, there were traces of 
tears sometimes on her cheeks, and a sadder look 
than ordinary softening the coldness of her gray 
eyes. 

“Why, my dear Mrs. Von Troomp! — ah, I 
knew you were here! — the house smells like the 
sanctuary after a grand High Mass, when every- 
thing is misty with incense: it smells like vio- 
lets,” said Lucia. 

“Yes, it is violets; and here it is. But I’ll 
light the lamp and you can see for yourself,” an- 


Zo£’S DAUGHTER. 


496 

sv/ered Mrs. Von Trootnp, proceeding to strike 
a light. “There!” she added, pointing to a 
basket lined with moss and filled to overflowing 
with the delicious flowers. Lucia bowed her 
face down into them, inhaling their fragrance 
with inward caresses, and tears gushed from her 
eyes, for instantly they carried her back to 
Haylands: they were the first she had seen since 
she left Virginia, and by the subtle power of 
association brought back like a spell the joys 
and sorrows of the past. 

“What friend have I here to remember me so 
kindly ? They have attacked my weak side, for 
I am a faithful subject of the flowery kingdom,” 
she asked, looking lovingly down at the blue, 
tender, fragrant things. 

“Roger Dean called to see you while you were 
out. He left the flowers for you. He said he 
thought you’d enjoy them.” 

“How very kind!” cried Lucia coldly, as she 
put the basket down upon the table. She did 
not know it herself, but she had felt whenever 
she thought of it just a little mortified and disap- 
pointed that having asked and obtained her per- 
mission to call he had not done so; and now that 
he had deigned to come, she was in her heart 
glad that she was out. 

“What shall I do with them?” asked Mrs. 
Von Troomp, watchful of Lucia’s countenance. 

“I think I’ll take them to Our Blessed Lady’s 
shrine, when I go to the ‘children’s mass’ in 
the morning.” 

“Not keep them yourself, after he took the 
trouble to bring them!” 

•“They are better there; and to keep them 
fresh I’ll set the basket out among the carna- 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


497 

tions,” said Lucia, stepping into tlie garden with 
the violets, where she left them. 

“Gott!” ejaculated Mrs. Von Troomp; then 
she wondered — not being versed in the perverse 
ways of the female heart, she being an exception 
to the rule herself — what made Lucia dislike 
Roger Dean so much and in so unreasonable a 
manner. But she said nothing on the subject, 
and busied herself about her usual arrangements 
for tea. After pouring out a cupful for Lucia 
and herself, she observed: “Dr. Siegel was here 
again to see if I had heard anything about a 
nurse for his patient, and he and Dr. Dean had 
a talk over the case, and they went together to 
Lisbetli Jansen’s to see if they could get her.” 

“I hope they may succeed. How is the lady?” 

“Worse, Dr. Siegel says. Between you and 
me, he’s at his wits’ end, for now he’s not sure 
that it’s cancer — and yet it is so like, he says, 
that he’s at a loss what to do. If it’s not a can- 
cer, he says, cancer treatment will kill her out- 
right. I think he took a half pound of snuff at 
least while he was here.” 

“ How dreadful the suspense must be to the 
lady ! Did you happen to hear her name, Mrs. 
Von Troomp?” 

“No. Dr. Siegel is very odd about his pa- 
tients. If he mentions their name, he keeps their 
disease to himself; if their disease, he keeps their 
name to himself. He’s very punctilious about 
his patients, and I think he’s right, for nobody 
likes to have their bodily ails gossiped over. 
There are a great many reasons why they 
shouldn’t be! ” 

“Are there?” answered Lucia, for at the mo- 
ment the wind wafted in through the window 
32 


498 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


such a strong odor of violets that she almost held 
her breath, and quite lost thought of what Mrs. 
Von Troomp was saying. 

“I never smelt anything like those flowers in 
my life; and there’s not the least trace of a sick- 
ening sweetness in them. It’s a stately, royal 
sort of odor 9 I think, and yet people say the violet 
is an emblem of humility. ” 

“They must mean the common wood violet, 
which in the Southern woods blossoms under the 
dead leaves, in the grasses, and everywhere the 
winds waft their seeds; but they have no fra- 
grance. As to the others, they are the exclusive 
aristocrats of flowers: they will flourish only in 
beds by themselves, and just sulk and die if 
mixed with other plants.” 

“How curious! But they’re very sweet. I 
can’t imagine where Roger Dean got them.” 

“Mrs. Von Troomp,” said Lucia, changing 
the subject, “I have my suspicions about Dr. 
Siegel’s patient. I think she is Mrs. Yellott, 
and I mean to go and see.” 

“Where is she?” asked Mrs. Von Troomp in 
great surprise. 

“New Stadt Street: I have the number in my 
memorandum book. “Will you go with me?” 

“It might not be agreeable to the lady to see 
a stranger; then, you know, there may be some 
grudge on her part yet. ’ ’ 

“True! why should I go, after all? She is to 
have a nurse, and might refuse to see me.” said 
Lucia sadly, as she thought involuntarily of the 
evil shadow Mrs. Yellott had cast over the sun- 
shine of her life. “I must wait, and if an op- 
portunity offers I will brave everything to help 
her for your sake, my Guardy, and the sake of 
Our Lady of Dolors, ’ ’ she thought. 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


499 


“ What use is there in fretting? This may be 
a strange woman you never laid your eyes upon,” 
said practical Mrs. Von Troomp. “Come, now, 
take another cup of tea.” 

“ Yes — that may be so. If you’ll excuse me, 
I’ll go to my room. I must write to Mr. Allston; 
I can’t stand this suspense any longer.” 

“You’ll find a letter on your table. Father 
Hendrick sent it, but I forgot all about it, what 
with the violets, and the two doctors and their 
talk. ’ ’ 

Lucia flew up stairs, lit her candle, found 
the letter and read or rather devoured it. It was 
only a few lines from Father Jannison, written 
in great haste to catch an opportunity that had 
unexpectedly offered to send it direct. “He was 
well. Poor Sam Meggs was dead. Things were 
going from bad to worse at ‘ Haylands. ’ Mrs. 
Yellott was away, and there was no limit to the 
profusion and dissipation kept up by her son. 
But, notwithstanding, he was under a cloud: 
there were whispers and hints, and although the 
gentry around partook of his costly entertain-- 
ments, they did not affiliate with him as one of 
themselves. Mr. Allston was well, and had 
gladdened his old heart by the good news about 
the girl Daphne and the sale of her diamonds.” 
Then, blessing her, Father Jannison commended 
her anew to the care of God and the Blessed Vir- 
gin, and bade her adieu. There was nothing 
much in the letter, but it relieved her mind of 
some anxieties. Father Jannison and Mr. All- 
ston were well; as to poor Sam Meggs, who had 
so long known only a life-in-death existence, she 
thought of his having passed away, she hoped to 
a new and better life, with a prayer for his 


500 


Z0£’S DAUGHTER. 


eternal repose, but not a regret. Her heart 
ached when she thought of the memory of Allan 
Brooke so dishonored by his own flesh and blood, 
under the roof which had so long sheltered his 
spotless fame; but she could not help it, — she 
could only grieve that it should be so. 

The next morning, as Lucia stepped into the 
garden to get the basket of violets to take to St. 
Gudule’s, she was startled by hearing the bell 
toll heavily. She hurried in through the hall, 
out upon the stoop, where Mrs. Von Trooinp 
was standing, with a scared look in her counte- 
nance, listening to the heavy booming of the 
bell. Added to these ominous sounds, the loud 
thunderous sound of a cannon burst upon the 
air — presently another — and another; what could 
the firing of minute guns mean when there was 
no storm ? 

“Gott! ” said Mrs. Von Troomp; “maybe it’s 
the British back?” 

“I don’t know; but here comes Father Hen- 
drick, running this way. What can be the 
matter?” 

“I can’t stop a moment!” exclaimed Father 
Hendrick. “I’m on my way to the salt-meadows, 
which are submerged by the highest tide ever 
known. People are drowning in their houses, 
and some of the most rickety of the huts are 
being washed away, for the tide is still rising. I 
ordered the bell at St. Gudule’s to be tolled, and 
stationed a man there to tell every one to come 
down and help.” 

Mrs. Von Troomp and Lucia offered to go at 
once and give what help they could. 

“I can’t stop; but if you come, bring blankets 
and dry clothes and cordials, tea, coffee, and 


ZOL’S DAUGHTER. 501 

bandages — there’s Jacobi — Jacobi!” shouted 
Father Hendrick; “come here, the ladies want 
you. Make him bring whatever you think will 
be useful.” Jacobi came running, breathless, 
and Father Hendrick hurried off. 

“We must drink a cup of coffee before we 
go,” said the practical woman. “If we expect 
to work, we can’t do much on empty stomachs. 
Go down, Jacobi, -and tell Diva to bring up the 
coffee, while I get the things together. Come, 
Miss Lucia; come and help me.” 

Blessed be old chests and trunks, and the 
hoarded relics of the half century with which 
they are sometimes crammed and crowded! Old 
blankets, old quilts, old garments of all sizes 
and shapes and sorts, were emptied and bundled 
up by Mrs. Von Troomp’s strong hands; then 
a basketful of bread, tea, meat, some bottles of 
Schiedam schnapps, nobody knew how old, and 
cordials, and a box of lint and bandages left since 
the last war — they were all packed and ready, 
and the closets were left as bare as Mother 
Hubbard’s. Mrs. Von Troomp was peremptory 
about the breakfast. Lucia wanted to start right 
off ; but she would remain to eat her breakfast, 
give Jacobi his, and then — she was ready. Lucia 
was thankful afterwards for all this thoughtful- 
ness, although it seemed very cold-blooded at 
the time; but it was one of those lessons of 
self-restraint which she accepted as part of her 
training, against her own nature; and as patiently 
as she might she sat down and drank two cups 
of coffee and ate as much as she could. Just as 
they were rising from the table the wind brought 
in the perfume of the violets, filling the room 
with its sweetness. 


502 


zoe’s daughter. 


“I’m glad,” muttered Mrs. Von Troomp, 
while she was loading Jacobi’s broad shoulders 
with the huge bundle, ‘‘that she couldn’t take 
them away, after all. Come, Miss Lucia, we 
can carry this basket between us until we find a 
man or boy to take it. Here, take hold of this 
end.” Lucia grasped the handle of the wicker 
basket; Mrs. Von Troomp seized the other, and 
they started, the bell of St. Gudule’s still tolling, 
and the minute-gun booming with awful rever- 
berations which sent a thrill of horror through 
every heart, for by this time the whole town 
knew there was a high tide at the salt-meadows, 
and that people were perishing, drowned in their 
poor houses like rats in a trap. 

‘‘Here, you two!” called Mrs. Von Troomp 
to two lads who were hurrying past; “come 
here and take hold, and there’s a penny apiece 
for you. Put this bottle of schnapps in your 
pocket, Miss Lucia; I’ll put another in mine, 
for there’s no telling how or where we may 
want it.” 

The lads took hold of the basket with a will, 
and fell back with Jacobi, who was panting 
under his load; they all belonged to St. Gudule’s, 
and the prospect of a penny in those days was 
more than that of a dollar in these degenerate 
times. The two ladies now hurried to the scene 
of the disaster. Crowds of men, women and 
children lined the high grounds that skirted the 
meadows; and where yesterday were the green 
lush pastures, dotted with pink and yellow marsh 
roses; where the graceful willows and alders, 
shading the humble dwellings near which they 
grew, swayed and tfembled in the soft south 
winds; where white frisking lambs dappled the 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 503 

rich verdure, and lazy cows cropped the delicate 
herbage or lay basking in the sun; where chil- 
dren shouted and laughed and played, tumbling 
around in their ragged, dirty garments as happy 
as kings, there was now a rolling, angry mass 
of water that swept in, ever in, with a fury that 
seemed to threaten widespread destruction. 
Some of the huts were completely washed away, 
their wrecks dashing about wildly in the swirl- 
ing tide, endangering the safety of the boats, 
which, rowed by strong arms, were plying, 
rescuing the drowning and those who, having 
scrambled to the roofs of the houses, scarcely 
had a hope of deliverance. Many of the poor 
creatures had already been, brought ashore and 
taken to cottages belonging to laborers on the 
high grounds beyond the reach of danger, where 
all was being done for their comfort and restora- 
tion that the means at hand afforded. The 
greatest excitement prevailed, but there was no 
noise as in ordinary crowds; people were horror- 
stricken at what was passing before them, it was 
so relentless, so terrible, that they felt — many of 
them for the first time — the utter impotency of 
man against God, and in the awed silence of their 
hearts they breathed a prayer that in mercy He 
would hold His almighty hand. Above the sul- 
len din and roar of the gathering waters, the bell 
of St. Gudule’s and the heavy boom of the can- 
non were still heard, giving voice to the human 
prayer for help, and pulsing through the trou- 
bled air all the human anguish and mortal terror 
that were there. Momently the throng was in- 
creased by people from every quarter of the town,, 
who came full of fright and curiosity, but inca- 
pable of lending much assistance. 


5°4 


ZO &$ DAUGHTER. 


When Lucia came in full view of the terrible 
scene she experienced one of those strong, deep, 
speechless passions of emotion which held her 
motionless; but Mrs. Von Trooinp, running 
Jacobi before her like a huge wheelbarrow, and 
followed closely by her penny expectants with the 
basket, joined a crowd which surrounded several 
persons who were borne on litters, some half- 
drowned, others with broken limbs, to the 
nearest dwelling. Separated from Lucia by a 
sudden surging of the crowd, she did not dis- 
cover that she was not with her until she wanted 
her assistance, and couldn’t leave the poor crea- 
tures thrown upon her care to go in search of 
her — so she sent Jacobi; but Jacobi, almost 
crazed by the horrors he witnessed, could do 
nothing but stand gazing down at the dark flood 
and all that was going on there, terrified almost 
to death, but so fascinated by the frightful scene 
that he could only stand gazing, while his teeth 
chattered in his head like castanets. 

Lucia’s attention was directed towards a boat 
which was fighting its way towards a house sub- 
merged to its second story, from the windows of 
which its distracted inmates, standing in the 
very jaws of death, were waving signals of dis- 
tress and widly praying for help, their screams 
drowned in the roar of the rising waters. There 
was that peculiar opaque light over it all which 
seems to rarefy the atmosphere to such a degree 
that things at a distance are brought nearer with 
great distinctness, and she saw standing in the 
bows of the boat a tall stalwart figure, divested 
of coat and wajstcoat, who held a coil of rope in 
his hand and leaned forward, encouraging the 
people at the windows by signs. Lucia could 


505 


ZCX&’S DAUGHTER. 

not see who it was; his back was towards her, 
his hair blown back by the wind, seemingly in- 
tent on saving life at the risk of his own. 

“ Who is the man standing in the bow of that 
boat?” she at last found voice to ask a woman 
near her.~ 

“ That is Dr. Dean, ma’am; he’s been going 
back and forth since the day broke, just as you 
see him. It was him that stirred up the men — 
they was afraid to go at first — and had boats 
brought round, and bless you ! when they saw 
he was goin’ to risk his life they warn’t afraid to 
risk their’ n. Everybody’s willin’ to follow 
where he leads. But it’s gettin’ rougher and 
rougher; there’s such a strong back’ard s\^ash 
of the rollers that I’m afeard for him this time.” 

“Do you know where Father Hendrick is?” 
asked Lucia, with a great sickening throb at her 
heart, her eyes still fixed upon the grand figure 
which stood out in manly and graceful propor- 
tions like a silhouette against the livid sky. 

“The priest, you mean? He’s up yonder, 
helpin’ them that’s past human help. Some of 
the poor creeturs that was picked up was so hurt 
and maimed by the floating logs and things that 
they can’t live, a-many of them.” 

It was indeed Roger Dean, — the idol of the 
poorer classes, who had such faith in him; they 
thought because he was directing everything, 
and helping with his own hands, that no great 
harm would come of the flood after all. Lucia 
did not speak again, but stood — with every ves- 
tige of color faded out of her face and every 
pulse of her heart a prayer for his safety and suc- 
cess — watching this being, so noble and grand in 
his true manhood as he stood there as firm as a 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 


506 

mountain-ash, his figure swaying, as the boat 
beat through the surge and swirl, to its motions. 

Floating timbers and uprooted trees were pitch- 
ing about here and there, tossed at the mercy of 
the mad outgoing and incoming currents, which 
threatened the boat with destruction at any 
moment; but impelled by the stout arms that 
plied the oars, it drew nearer and nearer the 
doomed house: now it was within a foot or two 
of it, and Roger Dean had lifted his arm to throw 
the coil of rope to the arms outstretched for it, 
when it was swept back by the mad current; but 
again the men bent strongly and swiftly to their 
oars — a long pull for very life, and they reached 
it; the rope was caught, and secured within, and 
the women and children were safely transferred 
from the shaking house to the boat — all was 
ready to start shoreward — Roger Dean was unty- 
ing the rope for future use, but as he stood 
poised for an instant on the window-sill, some 
one shouted: 

“ There’s a woman left — an old blind woman.” 

“Hold, men!” he said, in loud, determined' 
tones; “she must be saved.” 

“ But sir,” cried one of the men, “there ain’t 
room for another soul in the boat. We’ll be 
swamped, and the house is already shaking; it 
will be down in five minutes.” 

“There’ll be room!” he shouted, springing 
back into the house and forcing a door with a 
single push of his broad shoulder. He found 
himself in a» small room, a -few feet lower than 
the one he had just left, where the water was al- 
ready several inches deep, and in a corner he saw 
a negro woman, old, blind, and ash-colored with 
terror, kneeling with a bundle slung in a shawl 


ZOK’S DAUGHTER. 


507 


around her neck. Tears were rolling from her 
sightless eyes, and he heard her say in loud, 
trembling accents: “Jesus and Mary, into yo’ 
hands I commend my sperrit. Help me when the 
floods cover me; be my rock and my salvation!” 

“ Come, old mother! ” he cried, lifting her up 
like a child. “Come; I’m going to take you 
ashore in a boat.” 

“Who is you, sir? Is you the angel the Lord 
sent to help Tobit?” she asked, tremblingly. 

“No, I’m a sinful man; but the Lord has sent 
me, notwithstanding, to help you. Now don’t 
be afraid; here’s the boat — there! Now, boys, 
go quickly, and come back for me as soon as you 
can,” said Roger Dean, as he deposited the poor 
old blind creature in the boat. 

There were signs of revolt amongst the men; 
what was this old negro’s life to his? They de- 
clared they wouldn’t leave him; but while they 
were clamoring and urging, and some of them 
swearing, he cut the rope, and an incoming furi- 
ous wave swept the boat far on its way shore- 
ward. He stood upon the window-sill, leaning 
against the frame, and, shading his eyes, looked 
towards the bay. Another wave higher than the 
last was coming — he already felt the frail house 
shaking with the reverberations of its mad ap- 
proach, and the waters driven before it were 
pouring in through every window and crevice; 
nearer and yet more near, like a swift messenger 
of wrath, it came — he commended his soul to 
God, and lifting his hands high above his head, 
plunged into the flood before it was on him. As 
lie disappeared, the house was swept away like 
chaff,- and scattered on the face of the seething 
waters. A cry of horror from the thousands 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


508 

upon the shore rent the air, and Lucia, who had 
seen it all, nerved to more than human strength 
by the suddenly developed knowledge (how, when, 
or why it came, she did not ask herself) that the 
life of that man and her own were one, ran 
among the men offering large rewards to whom 
ever would try and save him, for there was some- 
thing within her assuring her that he was not 
dead. It was one of those supreme moments 
which sometimes come in a lifetime, when the 
tramels of custom, sex, and fixed standards of 
conduct are swept aside, leaving the spirit free 
to act on its noblest inspirations; and Lucia, 
full of but one thought, would take no rebuff. 
The boats were all out; but there was one near- 
ing the shore, and heedless of all danger to her- 
self, or the rain which was now falling in sheets, 
she ran towards the point where it was trying to 
land its living cargo rescued from floating 
timbers and the waves. She besought the men 
to put back immediately; but they were nearly 
exhausted, and flatly refused, saying they “had 
families to take care of, and their strength was 
gone.” 

“But Dr. Dean is drowning out there!” 
screamed a woman who was helping two or three 
children out of the boat. 

“Dr. Dean! That’s another matter. You 
fellows that’s ’most give out give place to some 
fresh fellows. Who’ll come? We can’t spare 
Dr. Dean; he saved my life last spring!” shouted 
the man who seemed to command the rest. 

“And my babies’,” cried a young athletic fel- 
low, springing into the bo^at. Lucia recognized 
him as the man she had spoken tp on the road 
the evening before. Two more followed him, 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 509 

for by this time the other boat had landed, and 
the news spread like wildfire that Dr. Dean had 
lost his life in saving that of a blind woman. 
Tears rolled over many a rough cheek as the 
story passed from one to another, and women 
were heard wailing in uncontrollable grief — for 
this man had a great hold on the hearts of the 
people. There was no longer need to offer re- 
wards, or persuade fresh hands to man the boat; 
they could have manned ten boats, if they had 
been at hand, with men eager to risk life and 
limb to save this noble being, in whose existence 
self had no place. But the number of men 
necessary was made up, and they were ready to 
cast loose, when Lucia said: “I am going with 
you — help me in!” 

“Better not, madam; there’s no tellin’ what 
may happen; it’s dangerous out there in the 
swirl — ’ ’ 

“Let me go; Dr. Dean is my” The 

word “friend ” was lost to the men in the noise 
and roaring of the waters, and thinking she was 
his betrothed, they assisted her to get into the 
boat. She dropped on the seat at the rudder, 
the man who had taken it in charge having 
stepped a little on one side to help her, and be- 
fore she knew it she was steering the boat, as 
she had often done when going up and down the 
Potomac, sailing or rowing. 

“Let me do it!” she pleaded. “I knowhow, 
and will steer right to the place where he went 
down. ’ ’ 

4 ‘ Are we on the right tack, madam ? ’ ’ asked 
the man. 

“Yes. It is just over there where you see a 
tree-top above the water. I saw it all.” 


ZOt y S DAUGHTER. 


5*0 

With hope growing fainter the farther out 
they got among the wild currents, Lucia scanned 
every object that came dashing by. Once a 
child’s white smiling face, half veiled by the 
water, flashed an instant on her, then swept by; 
a great cry burst from her lips, and she would 
have stretched out her arms in the effort to catch 
it; but it was too soon gone, and she remem- 
bered that by letting go the rudder all her efforts 
might be in an instant frustrated. Pieces of 
household furniture, cradles, rafters, tables, trees 
— all drifting wildly — went past; once again a 
dead face, with wide open eyes, the hair and 
beard streaming out on the water, swept by. Oh 
God! should she see any more such horrors as 
these? She must not grow sick or faint now — 
she knew that; but fainter and fainter grew her 
hopes, until she could look to nothing more satis- 
factory than the recovery of his body before the 
greedy waters dragged it out to the ravenous 
sea. 

But presently they saw a confused mass of tim- 
ber floating down, its great weight leaving it less 
at the mercy of the current than other floating 
things; and as the men watched it one of them 
cried out that there was a mah lashed upon it. 

They rowed towards it, while Lucia watched 
it with breathless intensity, her heart crying 
incessantly to the Mother of Sorrows for help. 

They neared the floating mass; as carefully as 
the swirl of the water allowed, they approached 
it; at last they were in full view of the man 
lying upon it, and some one shouted “It’s him ! 
It’s the Doctor, but I b’lieve he’s dead!” 

Bending to their oars with a strong pull, a long 
pull, and a pull all together, they tackled the 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 511 

heavy timbers — and there, lashed to one of them 
by the rope that was coiled on his arm when 
he leaped into the water, was Roger Dean, his 
face like marble, and his shirt dabbled with 
blood, which seemed to ooze still from a cut 
somewhere about his shoulder or chest. 

It was a work of some peril to extricate him 
and get him into the boat, which was dashed to 
and fro, up and down, by the conflicting currents; 
and at any moment the mass of timbers might 
separate and swamp them. But stout arms and 
willing hearts, with faith to help, can do much; 
and the body was rescued. Lucia made a pillow 
of her shawl, and she let them lay his head upon 
her knees — “What did it matter now,” she 
thought — “now that he is dead?” How noble 
and grand the face, how finely chiselled the feat- 
urespdiow gentle the smile upon the fine sensi- 
tive lips, and more sweet by' contrast with the 
magnificent forehead, from which his hair, 
slightly threaded with white, she noticed, was 
washed back in heavy waving masses! 

But he might not, after all, be dead, she 
thought: she had read of cases of long-suspended 
animation, and obeying a swift impulse she had 
laid her hand above his heart. Good God! it 
beat faintly! She snatched the bottle from her 
pocket that Mrs. Von Troomp had thrust into it, 
pulled out the stopper, and poured a few drops 
of its contents between the white lips; again 
and again, a few drops at a time, when presently 
a sigh, a gasp gurgled in his throat, and he 
threw up his hand. 

“Turn him on his side, Missis; he’s swallered 
water,” cried the young fellow before alluded to. 

“Help me! — Come, take my place!” said 


5 J 2 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


Lucia, a sudden shame and fear coining over hei 
lest he should open his eyes and find her there. 
And at great risk to herself from the unsteady 
motion of the boat, Lucia transferred her charge 
to him, arranged the shawl comfortably under 
his head, and crouched down in the bottom 
of the boat behind the rowers, 1 but where she 
could still watch. The man was right, and he 
knew what to do with people who were half- 
drowned; and after various turnings and rub- 
bings and sudden manipulations, Roger Dean 
ejected the dirty salt water from his stomach and 
breathed again. Then the schnapps revived him 
still more, and he opened his eyes feebly and 
looked around, then lifting his hand he made 
the sign of the Cross and murmured u Deo 
gratias /” Lucia buried her face upon her 
knees, nor lifted it again until he was lifted 
out of the boat and borne away upon a litter. 
No one noticed her in the wild and joyful ex- 
citement of the people at the safety of their 
idol, and she stole away from among them 
towards a house where she saw a number 
of people standing around the door. As she 
approached, Father Hendrick came out, looking 
very sad and tired; and commanding her voice 
as well as she could, she asked him if he knew 
“where Mrs. Von Trooinp was?”_ 

“Yes. She is in that low yellow house up 
yonder amongst the trees. But the saints defend 
us, my child, you are drenched to the skin!” 
exclaimed Father Hendrick. “Where in all the 
world have you been?” 

“It is raining very hard, Father,” she replied, 
shrinking within herself. 

“Make haste and get into a dry place, my 
child. Have you seen Roger Dean ? ’ ’ 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


513 

“He is just landed — and is hurt, I believe,’’ 
she answered, evasively. 

Father Hendrick did not stop to ask questions; 
he hurried straight away, evidently ignorant of 
the catastrophe by which Dr. Dean’s life was 
supposed to be lost; and Lucia, thankful to be 
relieved of the necessity of entering into partic- 
ulars, hastened to join Mrs. Von Troomp, who 
having made everybody as comfortable as cir- 
cumstances would allow, just stopped long 
enough when Lucia appeared to see her drenched, 
half-drowned condition, then without a word led 
her into another room where there was a fire 
burning, and took off her wet things, replacing 
them with coarse but dry and warm garments 
which hung near it to be in readiness for who- 
ever might need them. Lucia neither spoke nor 
resisted; the reaction had come — she was limp, 
and like wax in Mrs. Von Troomp’ s strong 
hands, which rubbed her and kneaded her until 
her circulation was fully restored — then, as 
women are always apt to do, she burst out cry- 
ing. 

“Gott!” exclaimed Mrs. Von Troomp at last, 
as she folded her hands and looked down at 
Lucia, who was sobbing upon the bed; “where 
have you been? ” 

“I11 a boat!” gasped Lucia. But not an- 
other word of explanation would she give, and 
Mrs. Von Troomp wisely let her alone. Her 
cheeks glowed with crimson; she felt as if she 
must go away from New York that very night 
when she thought of what she had done, and 
wondered how she could ever look any one in 
the face if she stayed: but under all this there 
was an under-current of thankfulness and a 
33 


5 X 4 


ZOfi’S DAUGHTER. 


deep happiness in knowing that Roger Dean 
was saved, and that but for herself he must have 
perished — for the timbers to which he was lashed 
had parted with a crash before the boat reached 
the shore. 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


515 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE “SPOOK.” 

There was great anxiety felt by the public 
about the condition of Roger Dean ; people high 
and low had come to look upon him with unques- 
tioning confidence in his goodness, and a just 
pride in his fame; and now, when vague rumors 
were whispered that his life was in danger, they 
realized that if the worst happened it would be 
an individual loss to every one. 

It is not to be supposed that the community 
left itself in ignorance of how he happened to be 
nearly drowned in the high tide at the salt- 
meadows, for lack of questioning anybody and 
everybody who was supposed to know anything 
about it. The people who were rescued from the 
old house, and the boat’s crew by whom he was 
rescued, gave a pretty truthful version — with some 
exaggerations, as was natural — of the affair; and 
when the thousand and one reports, many of them 
more than a stone’s throw from the truth, were 
added and carefully sifted, the bare, noble fact 
came out that Dr. Dean had taken his chances 
for life or death that day to save an old blind 
negro woman from drowning like a caged rat in 
the partly submerged house, by bearing her in 
his own arms to the boat, and making her take 
his place in it, for the poor creature, being sight- 
less and feeble with terror, was as helpless as a 
child. 


zoe’s daughter. 


5 i6 

“It was just like Dr. Dean,” people said to 
one another, “but it was very foolhardy. What 
was an old woman’s life worth compared with 
with his? Men like Dr. Dean are in a manner 
responsible to the community for what they do 
with their lives.” 

But there were many, as we may imagine, 
who viewed his heroic act of charity in its true 
light, people who knew the motive that governed 
him, and that all he did, whether little or much, 
was done with reference to the divine maxim: 
“Whatsoever ye do to the least of these ye do 
unto Me. ’ ’ And they thought of that other saying: 
“What can a man do more than give his life for 
another?” But they knew also that there was 
no thought of ostentation in the man’s religious 
sentiments or practices, which in reality seemed 
but part of himself, so fully did they permeate the 
acts of his daily life, causing him to do all that 
he did without hope of favor or reward; and in 
this last instance they felt assured that he was 
inspired by the noblest instincts of a great hu- 
manity, which was consecrated by divine charity. 

In the great interest excited by his danger, the 
main object seemed to be to find out exactly how 
it happened; how he managed to escape, and to 
what extent he was injured. Bvery one knew 
that he was rescued by the crew of old “Norway 
Bill’s” boat, which had put back for the last 
time, hoping to find his body, for nobody had a 
thought but that he had been crushed to death 
when the house fell; and just when they had 
given up all expectation of success, descried his 
body lashed to some floating timbers. All this 
we say was known, and discussed, and talked 
over and over again, but never a word was whis- 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


517 

pered of the agency of the young girl who urged 
“Norway Bill” and his men, by force of her 
own will, to go in search of him, herself accom- 
panying them at the risk of her life. Somehow, 
except among the crew who picked up Dr. 
Dean, 110 one seemed to know anything about 
her; for she had disappeared as suddenly as 
she came, and the men were well satisfied to 
have all the credit and honor of saving so 
valuable a life to themselves. So entirely and 
without trace had she disappeared, that the 
old Norwegan who had spent the best part of 
his life in whaling vessels, swore roundly that he 
“didn’t b’lieve it were a human, but mebbe 
the sperrit of Dr. Dean’s mother or sister as 
had coined back to help him; he’d heerd and 
seen many stranger things nor that, sailin’ 
the salt seas.” But nobody heeded the super- 
stitious old tar, and his companions were so well 
pleased with the importance and renown with 
which they were invested as the preservers of 
Dr. Dean, that they left out entirely the little 
episode of the brave girl, but for whose strong 
will he would have perished, and they willingly 
let that part of the story sink into silence — all 
of them, with one exception, who talked it over 
every evening with his wife, and declared at last 
that he would “b’lieve along with old “Norway 
Bill,’ that the purty, brave gal was a ‘spook,’ if 
he hadn’t a met her the evening before 1 the high 
tide, as he was coming from the kilns, and an- 
swered her, too, when she asked some questions 
about the water that was a-rising then. And 
here’s suinmat,” he added, pulling a paper par- 
cel from the pocket of his coarse blouse, and 
handing it to his wife, who slipped her hand out 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


518 

of the stocking she \yas darning to take it, “as 
I picked up when we lifted — the boys and me — 
Dr. Dean out of the boat.” 

The woman opened the parcel with eager 
fingers, and found within a fine lace-edged 
pocket-handkerchief saturated with blood. There 
was not a white thread to be seen in any of it, 
but there was a name embroidered in one of the 
corners, which, as neither of them could read, 
was all Greek to them, tho’ the woman turned it 
round and over, and held it up against the 
candle-light, but the riddle was not to be solved 
by any such devices. 

“‘Spooks’ don’t have handkerchiefs,” said 
the man, with a laugh at his own acuteness, 
“ and I’m jest waiting for Dr. Dean to git about, 
then I’ll give it to him, and tell him all I know.” 

“That’ll be the best plan, Joel; and laws! 
mebbe he’ll give us a heft about that acre over 
yonder,” answered the thrifty woman, her coun- 
tenance beaming at the thought. 

‘ ‘ Pshaw, now ! you women be allays think- 
ing about money and the like. I’d be ’shamed 
to take money from Dr. Dean after he saving 
Dody’s and Sissy’s life in the spring,” said Joel. 

“I wouldn’t throw it away, anyhow, if it was 
offered; and mind, Joel Winkle, don’t you,” re- 
plied the managing, rosy-cheeked wife, begin- 
ning to darn away again, and to build castles 
about that acre of ground she wanted so dread- 
fully, and was so determined to have if she could 
get it. 

A few days after this conversation Mrs. Win- 
kle was sitting at her window sewing, when a 
chaise drew up in front of the garden gate, and 
the driver called out to her to know if one “of 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


519 


their men who helped to save Dr. Dean the day 
of the high tide didn’t live there, — Joel Winkle 
by name?” 

“Yes, he’s my husband; he was one of ’em.” 

“Is he to home, marm?” 

“No, and won’t be till sundown. He works 
in the brick-yards.” 

“ Will you tell him when he comes that Dr. 
Dean wants to see him when he can spare time 
to come?” 

“ Sure: and how’s the doctor got?” 

“He’s jest on his legs agin; but the doctors, 
they keep him very quiet like, seeing his shoul- 
der-blade ain’t quite sot yet. You jest tell your 
man what I say, will you?” 

“Yes indeed. Won’t you have a cool drink 
of water? it’s a awful hot day,” said Mrs. Win- 
kle, whose heart fairly sang with joy at what 
promised to be the realization of her hopes, 
while she dipped up a gourdful of cool, spark- 
ling water just from the well. The man thanked 
her, drank the cooling draught, and drove away. 

Mrs. Winkle wanted Joel to go that very night, 
but he wouldn’t; he said “ it would look to eager 
like, as if he expected something; besides he was 
too tired and hungry; but to-morrow would be his 
off evening at the kiln, and he’d get home sooner 
and clean hisself; he wouldn’t like to go before 
Dr. Dean looking like a mud-turkle — not him.” 

And so it was settled ; and no mother prepar- 
ing her daughter for her first ball ever took 
greater pride in doing so than did this thrifty, 
sharp little woman in getting Joel’s holiday suit 
ready for the occasion. 

Dr. Dean’s house had been besieged for nearly 
three weeks by crowds of persons inquiring anx- 


520 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


iously about liis health, but except Father Hen- 
drick and two or three of his professional friends, 
no one had been admitted to see him. Father 
Hendrick was there everyday, and twice admin- 
istered Holy Communion to the suffering man, 
who, strengthened by this heavenly food, bore 
with calmer endurance the pains and uncertainties 
of his condition. The dislocation of his shoul- 
der was nothing serious in itself, but the deep 
cut in the more fleshy part of it, horribly bruised 
as well as gashed by whatever heavy thing had 
inflicted the wound, threatened trouble: an ar- 
tery had been severed, and the flesh was so man- 
gled that even after skillful dressing and ban- 
daging there was serious dread of inflammation, 
which obliged his medical advisers to insist on 
the most positive quiet and rest. But the danger 
was past now, and his first wish was to see the 
men by whom his life had been preserved. One 
at a time, day after day, he sent for them, ques- 
tioned and rewarded them. Old “Norway Bill” 
came first, and, to Roger Dean’s intense bewil- 
derment, brought in the “spook,” mixed up 
with a matter-of-fact description of how he was 
found floating, lashed to some timbers; “which 
wouldn’t a’ been but for that ar ‘ spook’ as made 
us turn back to look for you at the resk of our 
lives — hern was safe enough, being as she were a 
sperret,” added the rough old whaleman, shift- 
ing his big quid of tobacco from one jaw to the 
other. 

Dr. Dean’s impression was that the old fellow 
must be about three sheets in the wind to come 
there spinning such a yarn as that, and he did not 
take the trouble to ask any questions on the sub- 
ject; he only inquired the names of the other men 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


521 


of the boat’s crew, and, after thanking him for 
what he had done, put some broad gold pieces in 
his rough brown hand, telling him to send for 
him day or night whenever he was sick, and 
dismissed him overwhelmed by his good fortune. 

One after another the brave, hardy fellows 
were brought to him singly, and when he was 
best able to see them; all told the same tale, 
only in their self-glorification they did not say 
a single word about “Norway Bill’s” “spook,” 
nor did he think best to question them, for the 
more he thought of it the more assured he felt 
that the story was but the figment of a half- 
drunken fancy. 

When Joel Winkle’s turn came he found Dr. 
Dean sitting up, pale enough to be sure, but 
looking otherwise as well as usual. He was pre- 
possessed in Joel’s favor the moment he saw him; 
the fellow’s frank, honest countenance, his up- 
right bearing, the perfect cleanliness of his gar- 
ments, and the fragrance of a littly posy of 
thyme and pinks that his wife had stuck in the 
button-hole of his coat, made him a pleasant ob- 
ject for invalid eyes to rest upon. Roger Dean 
shook hands with the honest fellow and made 
him sit down near him. Then the whole story, 
told in words of truth and soberness, came out; 
and Roger Dean learned that old “Norway 
Bill’s” “spook” was a true, living woman, by 
whose persuasions and brave conduct the men 
were induced to put back in the boat which had 
been so lucky as to pick him up. “And,” con- 
tinued Joel Winkle, “but for her, whoever she 
may be, for she disappeared like a sliadder, you’d 
never seen dry land agin, sir, for the tide was 
dragging back so strong like that in less’ n twenty 


522 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


minutes them timbers would ha’ been in Hell- 
gate. I really did think, sir,” added the honest 
fellow, coloring up to the tips of his ears, “if 
you’ll excuse me, that she was somebody as had 
a nigh right to do what she did, arid I give way 
to her like, and so did the other fellows in the 
boat.” 

“ This is a strange story, Winkle,” said Roger 
Dean, quietly and with a delicate reticence. 
“I know of no lady ydio would be willing to 
peril her life for me in that way. I hope she 
landed safe ? ” 

“I never seen her, sir, from the minit the 
boat landed, for she slipped off, as I said before, 
like a shadder. When I turned to look for her 
she was gone. I noticed that she held a string 
of some kind of shiny beads with a cross danglin’ 
at the end of ’em, and kept on a counting of ’em 
and whisperin’ to herself, — I thought mebbe she 
might be praying, but I aint used to religious 
doin’ s, and can’t say for certain. Howsomever, 
here’s summat I picked up in the boat where you 
waslayin’; mebbe it’ll give you some trace of 
her.” And Joel Winkle took a paper parcel out of 
his pocket and placed it in Dr. Dean’s hands, who 
having unfolded it, saw only a lady’s fine pocket- 
handkerchief, stained and stiff with blood. 
He lifted it by one of the rich lace-corners and 
looked wonderingly at it. 

“There’s a name, sir, in one of them corners; 
leastways I s’ pose it is, but my wife and me 
couldn’t make it out,” observed Winkle. 

Yes, there was the embroidered name, blood- 
stained like the rest, cunningly and distinctly 
wrought; and turning himself round more to the 
light, Roger Dean saw the name of Ducia and 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 523 

the initials D’O. A shock like a sudden pain, 
followed by a wild rush of joy, shot through his 
being. Could it be? But he was silent; he 
made no sign of how well he knew the name, 
and how the sight of it there thrilled, him but 
sat holding the dainty trifle — so delicate that a 
breath of wind would have blown it away, — 
holding it as if it were a strong hope in his very 
grasp, which to be parted from would shadow all 
the days of his life. 

“And no one knew the lady?” he at last 
asked, swiftly jealous lest her name, connected 
with his, should be on every tongue. 

“Not a soul, sir. At first a great many was 
curious to knowsummat about her; but, as I tell 
you, she slipped off so suddint that nobody could 
tell ’em anything satisfactory; then they forgot 
it, I s’ pose. ” 

“How did this happen to get so bloody, 
Winkle?” asked Roger Dean. 

“Why, sir, she held it ag’in the cut in your 
shoulder — wedged it in like, as well as she could, 
to try and stop the bleeding.” 

“I would like to keep this, Winkle, if you 
don’t want it. I wish to find out to whom I am 
so much indebted, that I may thank them,” he 
said, after a short silence. 

“Bless you, sir, it’s no manner of use to me; 
you’re welcome to it, as fur as my wife and me 
is concerned.” 

“Thank you. It seems to me that I recollect 
seeing your face, Winkle, when I first- opened 
my eyes that day. But it is like a dream,” said 
Roger Dean, thrusting the handkerchief in his 
breast. 

“Yes, yes, sir. I was a holdin’ of you, for I 


524 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


didn’t know much about rowin’ and like to ben 
knocked overboard twicet by my oar kickin’ ; and 
when you corned to like, the young gal that had 
been holdin’ up your head got sort of fainty and 
asked me to take her place, and she set back, in 
the bottom of the boat, till we landed; then, as I 
telled you, she slipped away like a shadder. ” 

The very depths of the man’s heart were stirred 
to a sense of happiness and a fulness of content 
that he had never experienced before, while this 
dreadful Winkle was giving him all these par- 
ticulars, that Lucia would rather have died 
than to have him hear. He felt that the in- 
completeness of his being was approaching its 
perfect fulness, and yet — why will doubts come 
to shadow moments of the most perfect earthly 
bliss? — and yet, suppose, after all, it should not 
have been Lucia, whom he had loved from the 
first hour of meeting her, with an intensity that 
dnly a brave, true, honest nature like his can 
know, who had dared danger and death itself 
for him ! To perform 'such an act implied a 
deeper sentiment than mere humanity; and yet 
how dare he flatter himself that it was she, know- 
ing how cold and almost repellent she had 
always been towards him! This train of 
thought was interrupted by Joel Winkle, who, 
after shuffling his feet, and picking up his hat 
and putting it down again, said: 

“Sir — I mean Doctor — if I may be so bold, 
will you please to tell me how you wasn’t killed 
when the tide washed the old house down atop 
of you? ” 

“I hardly know myself, Winkle, but as well 
as I can recollect, I sprang into the water in one 
direction, and the wave caught me before the 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 525 

old house fell in, another catching me obliquely 
just here on my shoulder, and when the whirl 
and roar were over, I found myself upon one of 
the timbers, with just enough strength left to 
lash myself to it with a coil of rope that I had 
swinging upon my arm.” 

“Lord, sir, if it hadn’t been for that young 
woman, you’d ben churned to pieces, out there 
in Hell-gate,* for that wave went a surgin’ out 
like a troop of wild horses, and carried the old 
house and everything else in its way along with 
it. Our boat was jest out of the swirl, or it ’ud 
have caught us certain.” 

Yes, it was all frightful to think of and re- 
member; but what fair blossoms of hope had 
sprung into existence out of the destruction and 
chaos for him; blossoms which were sweet in 
possession, even should they wither and perish 
in his grasp! Roger Dean went to his desk and 
opened it, and after a little while returned with 
a small square tin box, such as medicinal pow- 
ders are packed in, and said, as he placed it in 
Joel Winkle’s hand: “Give this to your wife 
from me; as for yourself, I thank you beyond all 
price” — grasping the laborer’s rough hand. 
“Some day I will tell you how you have doubly 
served me.” 

Joel Winkle had gone there with the proud in- 
tention of refusing any reward that Dr. Dean 
should offer him; he had heard that the other 
men got money, but as for himself he would not 
touch a penny. 

“What! take money for helping to save the 
life of a man like Dr. Dean! Not I, indeed!” 

* Hurl-gate, or Whirl-gate, just outside New York harbor 
— so pronounced. 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


526 

But this hearty grasp of the hand, these words 
so warm and earnest, were more than enough 
for the honest fellow, and the only drawback he 
had was the little square tin box in his hand, 
which felt as heavy as lead. But he was 
ashamed to leave it upon the table behind some 
books, as he was sorely tempted to do; he had 
not the face to ask Dr. Dean to take back his 
gift; besides, whatever it might be, it had not 
been given to him, but sent to his wife; and the 
only relief he could find was to drop it out of his 
hand, which felt burnt by it, into the depths of 
his long-tailed coat, as he went out of the hall 
door, leaving Roger Dean to enjoy the balm of 
such fancies as his hopes, stimulated by the 
talisman in his possession, and all that he had 
heard, called up. 

There was great joy that night in Joel Winkle’s 
snug cottage, for when, like the dutiful husband 
that he was, he not only told his wife all that he 
had said, and all that Dr. Dean had said, with 
many a “says I” and “says he,” and how he 
looked, and if he was chipper and likely to be 
about soon, but fished the box out of his pocket, 
and put it down with a thud on the work-stand 
beside her, telling her “there was summat the 
Doctor had sent her.” She had been having 
previsions of something like this coming, and 
when her fingers, trembling with eagerness, 
took off the top and a hundred dollars in gold 
fell clanging and ringing into her lap, she 
clasped her hands and shrieked: “I’ll get that 
ground now, Joe, certain !” 

“You’d never got it if I had knowed what it 
was in that box, I tell you that ! ” said Joel, turn- 
ing as red as a beet, and bouncing out of his 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


527 


chair so suddenly that he upset it. Then he 
went out, soberly to walk up and down the road 
in the cool night air, to compose his spirits, — a 
sensible way he had of doing whenever there was 
danger of a family broil. 


528 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

DR. SIEGEL’S PATIENT. 

Although Mrs. Von Troomp felt a pardon- 
able curiosity to know how in the world Lucia 
had got so drenched and exhausted on the day 
of the “high tide,” she sensibly concluded that 
she had no right whatever to press her for an ex- 
planation, particularly when she noticed that she 
always grew very silent whenever the incidents 
of the flood were being talked over in her pres- 
ence; but when a whisper reached her ears,’ 
from some vague reports that were flying about, 
that a young lady — nobody knew who she was, 
where she came from, or whither she went — 
had been the means of saving Roger Dean’s life, 
the wise, silent woman put this and that to- 
gether, and the result was that she was morally 
sure the young lady in question could be none 
other than Lucia D’Olivieras. But she held 
her peace, and built no end of castles in the 
air concerning the possibilities of the future of 
these two beings, for whom a deep, sterling 
friendship, almost bordering on affection, had 
grown up in her lonely heart; and she earnestly 
prayed that what she wished for them might 
come to pass. 

Every day, as if incidentally, she volunteered 
a brief bulletin of Roger Dean’s condition, at the 
breakfast-table, and she noticed, with secret sat- 
isfaction, that during the time his state was con- 


529 


zoe’s daughter. 

sidered so critical, Lucia spent more time than 
usual at St. Gudule’s, and made more than one 
extraordinary Communion, while her face grew 
paler and more thoughtful than she had seen it 
since the first days of her convalescence in the 
spring. 

But she did not allow whatever it might be 
that was troubling her, to interfere with her self- 
assumed duties, Mrs. Von Troomp noticed. It 
was her way, as we have already seen, to go with 
filial love and confidence, to pour out her dis- 
tresses and perplexities in the ear of the Mother 
of Sorrows, whose guidance and intercession 
she had never asked in vain; to have recourse to 
the Sacraments for strength and fortitude, and 
then to let her griefs blossom out in some good 
work. Her temperament would not permit in- 
action, and her every effort was consecrated by 
referring it to the holy will of God, by which 
means she found a central calm which prevented 
all turbulence and distraction of mind. 

That she was bearing a strange cross was true. 
Her womanly modesty, her natural pride, her 
sensitive delicacy, were shocked beyond measure 
whenever she thought of what she had done on 
the day of the “high tide;” but when she came 
to analyze and weigh it, the result was that were 
it to do over again, she would act the same. But 
her greatest thorn of discomfort lay in the fact 
that she could no longer conceal from herself 
that she entertained for the man she had saved 
a sentiment beyond friendship, or that spontan- 
eous interest which every one who knew him 
was inspired with. If he died, she felt that 
thenceforth her heart would be as a sealed sep- 
ulchre : if he lived, she must go away from all 
34 


ZOE)’S DAUGHTER. 


53 °' 

chance of ever meeting him again. All this 
may be considered prudish and exaggerated, but 
as we have said before, Lucia was an excep- 
tional character, and if her standard was a little 
high-strung, it had at least the merit of being 
pure and womanly. 

Meanwhile, the Sunday-school prospered, to 
Father Hendrick’s great joy, and Lucia had or- 
ganized, in connection with it, a singing and 
sewing class, which met two evenings in the 
week in a large unoccupied basement room of 
Mrs. Von Troomp’s house, where she found 
great interest in instructing the children, who 
had all got to love her and look up to her with 
confidence and implicit trust; not that the chil- 
dren thereabouts were more perfect than others 
of their age and class, but she had selected them 
from the Sunday-school and admitted them to 
the privileges of her private classes to reward 
them for good conduct, cleanliness, and atten- 
tion to their lessons, which not only excited 
their emulation, but proved an incentive to the 
rest to improve their shortcomings. Sometimes 
she accompanied Mrs. Von Troomp in her char- 
itable expeditions, for the “high tide” had 
caused much sickness in that portion of the city 
which it had overflowed, and there was conse- 
quently a great deal of suffering among the poor 
who had been rendered destitute by it. The good 
woman had three or four pensioners in whom 
she was particularly interested, especially one, 
of whom she sometimes spoke — the old blind 
negro woman, to save whom Roger Dean had 
periled and nearly lost his life. But this pro- 
tegee of Mrs. Von Troomp’s Lucia always found 
some plausible excuse for not visiting; the very 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


531 


thought of seeing her agitated her mind, and 
brought up all too vividly before her imagina- 
tion the very circumstances she was endeavor- 
ing to forget. 

At length, one evening, Father Hendrick called 
to announce, with every expression of satisfac- 
tion, that Dr. Dean was not only considered out 
of danger, but ' was convalescing rapidly, and 
hoped to be able before long to resume his pro- 
fessional duties. 

“He is not only recovering,” added Father 
Hendrick, holding his cup of fragrant hot tea 
midway between the table and his lips, “but he 
seems full of a fresh, new life, and actually looks 
younger and happier than I have ever seen him. 
But Heaven is sure to bless such noble deeds as 
that by which he came near losing his life.” 

Father Hendrick was speaking in a general 
sense; he had great and implicit faith in the di- 
vine promises, which he knew never fell short of 
their object; he had not the remotest idea of 
how specially and speedily the man’s great re- 
ward had come to him through the blundering 
honesty of Joel Winkle; that is, the earthly part 
of it, for, as we know, God sometimes shows His 
favor to faithful souls by bestowing temporal 
blessings upon them. 

That night Lucia arranged certain plans by 
which she imagined she could avoid <*ill danger 
of meeting Roger Dean. After a more than 
usually silent breakfast 011 the following morn- 
ing, she told Mrs. Von Troomp that she was 
going to call upon Dr. Siegel’s patient, to satisfy 
herself whether or no it was Mrs. Yellott; and if 
it should be so, circumstances would decide when 
she would return. Mrs. Von Troomp put down 


53 ^ 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


the cup she was wiping and opened her sad 
gray eyes, full of inquiry and astonishment, on 
Lucia, but said never a word. 

“I am not going away for good, Mrs. Von 
Troomp,” she said, interpreting the silent ap- 
peal and answering it with a little laugh, and 
some embarrassment. “If this invalid woman 
should be indeed Mrs. Yellott, and I can be of 
any use, I shall spend much of my time with 
her, if she allows me. Meanwhile, if any one 
should come and inquire for me, don’t mention 
where I am, but oblige me by simply saying I 
am not at home; for this is my home all the 
same, and will be, so long as I remain in New 
York.” 

“How about your Sunday-school classes, and 
the sewing classes?” asked Mrs. Von Troomp 
brusquely. 

“I shall meet them as usual.” 

“Very well, Miss Lucia. I don’t think you 
are going to do a very sensible thing, to go and 
shut yourself up with so much disease and suffer- 
ing. You’ll be putting hot coals on Mrs. 
Yellott’ s head, though, if it should be her, 
which is some comfort.” 

“I do not wish to do that. I only wish to 
try, if possible, to alleviate her intense suffer- 
ings. If it should prove that I am mistaken, 
maybe I shall go to Fritz Hammel’s for a few 
weeks, to get some country air.” 

“But you can’t leave your classes,' don’t you 
see? You’ve yoked yourself to the plow, Miss 
Lucia, and can’t turn back midway the furrow.” 

“No, that is true,” said Lugia wearily. “I 
see that I must leave the results to Providence; 
only, whatever turns up, I want to feel that this 
is my home, and you my friend.” 


533 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 

“There’s my hand upon it,” said Mrs. Von 
Troomp, offering the' gage of her hand on her 
promise, a custom which to the Dutch heart is 
almost equivalent to an oath. “And mind, Miss 
Lucia,” she added, “come to me whenever you 
feel disposed to talk ofer what may be hurting 
your heart, if there’s anything there to trouble 
you. You may trust me, for I am a silent 
woman. ’ ’ 

“Thanks, dear friend,” answered Lucia as 
she leaned over and kissed the grave, quiet wo- 
man on her cheek. “I may claim your promise 
sometime; but good-bye now.” 

Lucia was in mourning'and plainly dressed, 
and when she got to the house on New Stadt 
street and inquired for Dr. Siegel’s patient, the 
woman who opened the. door asked her “if she 
was a nuss? for the lady above stairs won’t see 
any one but people as come to inquire for the 
place of sick nuss, and she’s had a many on trial, 
but none of ’em seems to suit her, she’s in sich 
a awful dretful state.” 

“Perhaps I might suit her,” said Lucia, 
quietly. 

“You’ll have a awful hard time if you do, 
then. Come in and set down here in the pas- 
sage, while I run up and give her notice you’re 
here.” 

“One moment, before you go. Tell me, if 
you please, the name of the lady? ” 

“I was ordered not to, and I haven’t up to 
now; but I’m gettin’ sort of tired out, you see, 
for her not havin’ a steddv nuss takes me off 
from my bizness till everything’s got sixes and 
sevens in my house. Her name is Yelote. ” 

“Yellott!” said Lucia, with a great throb at 
her heart at this confirmation of her impressions. 


534 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


“All the same*' I guess. I’ll go right up now 
and tell her a nuss is come, and I reckon she’ll 
see you right off.” 

Lucia was prepared for surprise, hauteur and 
a cold, sneering politeness from Mrs. Yellott, 
when she was recognized; but she had counted 
the cost, and nerved herself to be calm and for- 
bearing, happen what might. Never had she 
been placed in a more delicate or trying position; 
she almost felt that she was penetrating to Mrs. 
Yellott’ s presence under false pretences, and ob- 
truding herself, into a secret which it was evi- 
dent she jealously guarded from even her own 
children; but it was too late to go back now, for 
the woman called to her over the banisters, and 
told her to come up. The door of Mrs. Yellott’s 
apartment was open and she was invited to 
enter, which she did with hesitating and tremb- 
ling steps, until she saw that the room was 
darkened, and remembering that she had on a 
thick black veil, she advanced with more cour- 
age. It was pervaded by a stuffy smell of drugs, 
and that indescribable sick odor which poisons 
the atmosphere of an invalid’s apartment from 
which the sunshine and air is excluded. Mrs. 
Yellott was sitting in a large, dimity-covered 
arm-chair near her bed, her head reclining on a 
pillow behind her; and Lucia, whose eyes were 
a little more accustomed to the shaded room by 
this time, saw with tolerable distinctness that 
she was fearfully changed. Fearfully changed, 
but dressed with scrupulous care in a loose 
wrapper of fine thin cambric, ruffled and trimmed 
with lace, while a black lace veil, the ends of 
which fell on her breast, was thrown over her 
head. Lucia saw that her handsome black eyes, 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 535 

large and sunken, glowed like living coals in 
their sockets; that her cheeks were crimsoned 
from fever or pain, and that there was a quiver 
of suffering in every pulsation of her body, 
which fluttered the loose, light folds of her 
dress. 

“Sit down!” she said. Lucia sat down with 
her back to the little light there was in the 
room. “Did Dr. Siegel send you?” inquired 
Mrs. Yellott. 

“No, he did not. I heard him inquiring 
about an attendant for one of his lady patients, 
and I came,” said Lucia, gently. 

“Ah! you have a pleasant voice; but aren’t 
you very young to undertake so difficult a thing 
as nursing an invalid?” 

“I am not old, but I hope that will not pre- 
vent your allowing me to try; I can be attentive 
and kind” — 

“O my God!” suddenly exclaimed the suffer- 
ing woman as she clutched at the garments that 
covered her breast, tearing them away in her 
extreme agony; “I shall go mad with this tor- 
ture: here, hold my hands, hold them tight, or 
I shall tear my flesh” — She fell back upon 
her pillow, convulsed with suffering, while a 
cold sweat burst in great beads from her pores, 
and Lucia, throwing off her bonnet, sprang to 
her side, and took her cold, tremulous hands in 
her own, holding them with a firm but gentle 
grasp until the paroxysm began to subside; then 
she wiped the dew of agony off the pallid fore- 
head, and leaning a little forward, drew Mrs. 
Yellott’ s head to her breast, where it lay throb- 
bing and quivering in every nerve. 

“What can I do for you ?” asked Lucia, in 
tones of the tenderest sympathy. 


536 ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 

“Nothing. Don’t speak. Don’t move, or I 
shall die!” she gasped. 

And Lucia stood motionless, scarcely breath- 
ing, lest the slightest motion should disturb the 
tortured woman, who, exhausted by the fiery 
hurt of her malady, fell into a light slumber, as, 
worn out by its own violence, it left her a mo- 
ment in rest. But presently she awoke with a 
start, and looking wildly around for an instant, 
remembered, for Lucia still held one of her 
hands, while she supported her head with her 
other arm as it leaned against her breast. 

“Ah!” said Mrs. Yellott, “how kind you 
are. But 0I1 ! this is killing me, burning me by 
slow degrees, You see how it is.” Then she 
burst into a passion of tears, without a care to 
suppress the moans of her hopeless heart. Lucia 
laid her head back comfortably on the pillow, 
and pouring some lavender water over a clean, 
fine handkerchief she found upon the bed, she 
bathed her face and the burning palms of her 
hands with gentle touches, then brought a glass 
of iced water from a table near by, which she 
held to her lips. Swallowing a few mouthfuls, 
which seemeed to refresh her, she said, her voice 
low and broken: “You are very gentle; you do 
me good; but how can I expect any one to bear 
with me?” 

“I will not leave you, Mrs. Yellott, if you 
wish me to remain,” said Lucia. 

‘ ‘ After what you have seen ? Oh these rag- 
ing agonies come on so often, and at night I get 
no rest unless I am stupefied with opium. Your 
voice soothes me; you are not rough and ignor- 
ant; I do not know you, but oh ! don’t leave me!” 

Lucia was deeply touched by the pathos of 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


537 


such suffering, as well as by the friendless situa- 
tion of the poor invalid, who seemed to find a 
strange relief in her presence, which assured her 
that she had not gone amiss in coming to her. 

“ I will not leave you, certainly,” Lucia an- 
swered, in soothing tones, her eyes filling with 
tears. 

“Thanks. Oh I am so very tired! Let me 
lean against you as I did just now, and hold my 
hand again, please; perhaps I may fall asleep. 
Oh, I’ll give you generous wages if you’ll only 
stay. ’ ’ 

Lucia did as Mrs. Yellott requested, only 
keeping her face out of sight; and whether by 
some magnetic influence, or in answer to the 
earnest prayers which she addressed to the 
Mother of Sorrows in her behalf, she did fall 
asleep in the position she had chosen, and when 
she awoke in about a half hour, she seemed to 
be comparatively easy. 

“ Ah you are here! I was afraid it might be a 
dream. I have had a nice nap — but you must be 
tired,” said Mrs'. Yellott, lifting her head from 
Lucia’s breast and leaning back upon her pillow. 
“Now come, sit where I can see your face, and 
tell me your name.” 

Lucia grew pale, for she knew now that recog- 
nition was inevitable; but there was no escape, 
and she sat down just where Mrs. Yellott could 
get a full view of her face, and lifted her eyes, 
full of pleading and pity, .to hers. Mrs. Yellott 
looked at first bewildered, then a hot flush crim- 
soned her pallid forehead, and an angry light in- 
tensified the feverish gleam of her eyes. Lifting 
her hand with an imperious gesture, she ex- 
claimed: “How dare you come here, Lucia 


538 Z O&S DAUGHTER. 

D’Olivieras, to exult over me? Leave me in- 
stantly!” 

“ You misunderstand my motive entirely, dear 
Mrs. Yellott. Why should I exult? I heard 
that you were here ill; at least I had reason to 
suppose the invalid I heard spoken of might be 
you; and I determined to come, and, if it should 
be so, offer my services as friend and nurse. 
Now do not send me from you,” said Lucia, 
kneeling by the side of her chair, and taking her 
shaking hand between both her own. 

“After all! After all! No; I cannot believe it. 
There must be some secret motive, for you 
always hated me!” said the proud, unhappy 
woman. 

“No, believe me. Ah, Mrs. Yellott, can you 
remember all my dear Guardian’s love and care 
towards a motherless girl, and deny her the only 
way by which she can show her gratitude for his 
benefits, in trying to serve you, now that you so 
much need the presence of a friend — you who are 
his nearest living relative? For his sake, and 
in the name of our Mother of Sorrows, do not 
send me from you.” 

“Ah, God! how I am tortured within and 
without,” exclaimed Mrs. Yellott, in bitter ac- 
cents. “Oh pride! accursed pride! Lucia, why 
do come to torture me with your hypocritical 
piety? I never really harmed you. I didn’t like 
you, — I never pretended to — and now that I am 
helpless, you come to torture and torment me, 
when I have nothing — do you hear me? — noth - 
ing to console me!” 

Lucia’s head was bowed over the hot tremb- 
ling hand she held, and her tears rained upon it. 
Mrs. Yellott drew it away, and, holding it up for 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


539 

a moment, gazed with a softened look upon the 
moisture they left upon it. 

“Tears! Can it be that you weep for me, 
Lucia? Don’t you know that I always hated to 
be pitied? Don’t pity me. I’d rather you cursed 
than pitied me.” 

“As one of your own children might, Mrs. 
Yellott, I sympathize with you in your intense 
sufferings. I would willingly bear them for you 
if I might.” 

“My own children! Oh, my God! how she 
torments me ! Will it satisfy you to know that 
my children have stung me with ingratitude, a 
thousand times sharper than a serpent’s tooth; 
that they turned their backs upon me when I 
was almost dying, and left me to the care of 
negro servants, that they might be free to enjoy 
their pleasures? Ah, how have I been scourged 
through the sin of idolatry for my children ! 
through my pride, and now through you! It 
# was not kind, it was not ladylike, Miss D’Oliv- 
ieras, to take advantage of me in this way.” 

At this moment the pillow behind Mrs. Yel- 
lott, which she had deranged in her agitation, 
slipped, giving her a wrench of agony by the 
involuntary effort it caused her to recover her 
position. In an instant Lucia, with swift, gentle 
hands, arranged it comfortably, and again held 
an iced drink to her parched lips. Mrs. Yellott 
leaned back, and from under her closed eyelids 
tears forced their way over the burning fever of 
her cheeks. Lucia stood beside her, holding and 
smoothing her hand with soft gentle motion. 

“Do you pray for me when you touch me?” 
she abruptly asked. 

“I do, dear Mrs. Yellott,” Lucia answered 
simply. 


540 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


“Something does me good — I mean my nerves, 
but you must not stay.” 

“If you will allow it; I wish to do so.” 

“Go and shut and lock that door,” said Mrs. 
Yellott, after a painful silence of several min- 
utes ; ‘ ‘ then come here. I wish to show y ou some- 
thing that will make you go, if all that I can say 
fails to do so.” While Lucia stepped across the 
floor to do her bidding, Mrs. Yellott uncovered 
her bosom, and as she turned to come back the 
sight she beheld sickened her and made her in- 
voluntarily cover her face with her hand. Mrs. 
Yellott’s breast was bare, and a fiery, gnawing, 
ragged ulcer nearly covered it. One breast was 
partly eaten away, and bulbs of proud flesh 
protruded from the core of the tumor or what- 
ever it might be. 

“Ah, I knew that your delicate nerves would 
shrink, and that you would sicken, when you 
knew all ! Now you see my miserable condition ; 
g<? and triumph over the state to which it has 
reduced me! I knew how quickly your zeal to 
serve me would fade at the sight of these — these 
infernal fires.” 

“Forgive me, if at first I shrank from the 
sight of what must give you such intense suffer- 
ing; but now — let me help you. I feel no 
horror, no disgust, as you seem to think — only 
a great longing desire, which will take no denial, 
to do you good. What may I do? ” asked Lucia, 
with earnest sweetness. 

“If you are not mocking me, spread some of 
that white salve upon the clean linen cloth 
there upon the table, and lay it over my breast. 
Oh God! it is a foretaste of the worm that never 
dies. Quick! quick! the air has set it on fire!” 
cried the suffering invalid. 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 541 

. Quickly and deftly Lucia did all that she was 
bidden to do; and Mrs. Yellott, perfectly ex- 
hausted by pain and emotion combined, sunk 
back almost fainting. 

Never before had Lucia been moved by a 
deeper, a more compassionate sympathy; the 
sight of such intense suffering gave a separate 
pain to every nerve of her sensitive organization, 
while the desolation of the haughty woman, and 
the evident mental anguish under which she was 
bowed, appealed to the noblest and highest 
qualities of her nature. She lost sight of herself 
in the contemplation of such suffering, and her 
own trials seemed light by comparison. She no 
longer thought of Roger Dean or her dread of 
meeting him. 

Mrs. Yellott seemed but little disposed to con- 
verse; and closing her eyes she leaned back 011 
her pillows quite motionless, except the quiver 
of her garments, and an involuntary motion of 
her head, caused by the terrible throbbing of her 
pulses. Her nourishment was prepared and 
brought to her at stated hours by the woman of 
the house, who was really kind-hearted in her 
way, and told Lucia, when she went down to 
her dinner, that she’d “be glad to give her any 
assistance, when necessary, that she could.” 

That night another paroxysm of agony as- 
sailed Mrs. Yellott while preparing with Lucia’s 
help for bed, but it passed off, after extreme suf- 
fering, as the first had done. She refused to take 
her usual opiate, but remained so very quiet, 
that Lucia, overwearied in body and mind, fell 
asleep in the large chair occupied by her during 
the day. Her elbow rested on the arm of the 
chair, her head upon her long, fair hand. The 


542 


ZOL’S DAUGHTER. 


night-lamp, shaded from Mrs. Yellott’ s eyes, fell 
upon her face, bringing out the softened lines of 
its rare loveliness in full relief. Mrs. Yellott 
looked towards her, and seeing that she slept, 
lay watching her beautiful mobile features until 
the hard expression faded out of her eyes and a 
more kindly one took its place. The crust of 
selfishness and pride that had been growing for 
years and years around this woman’s heart was 
penetrated at last by the unmistakable sympathy 
of this girl, whom she had envied and hated; 
who, at a moment when she needed the kind 
ministrations of a friend more than she had ever 
done in her life, and when a despondency little 
short of despair had settled upon her, had come 
to her, speaking gentle and consoling words, and 
offering to help her bear the burden of her pain. 
She recognized the merciful providence of God 
in a vague sort of a way, by thanking Him for 
even this shadow of comfort. While she lay 
there thinking many sorrowful and bitter 
thoughts, Lucia awoke, wondering, with a start, 
where she was, and looked with a bewildered 
air around her until her eyes fell upon the 
white, silent figure upon the bed — then she re- 
membered it all. 

“Lucia,” said Mrs. .Yellott, in feeble tones, 
“it was very good of you to come to me. I 
shall never forget it; but you won’t be able to 
bear this long — it is impossible. I have had 
several nurses, strong healthy creatures, accus- 
tomed to hardships, but they soon sickened of it 
and left me. They said they lost too much 
sleep, and I suspect they did, for I am fearfully 
restless at night, unless I take opium, which 
sickens me nearly to death ; then when an attack 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


543 


would come on — you saw how it was with me — 
these creatures were so rough, and would give 
me such sudden jars and shocks in dressing and 
undressing me, that I would almost expire with 
the agony here. Then their careless, frowsy 
ways ! See this room ! ’ ’ 

“Yes, you need very tender care. I can im- 
agine how the slightest jolt must hurt. But now 
there will be no more of that. We will have a 
new order of things,” said Lucia soothingly. 

“And you will stay?” she asked wistfully. 

‘ ‘ I mean to stay, ’ ’ answered Lucia, very gently 
and decidedly, “ and will not leave you except 
for a little while two evenings in the week, and 
to go to Mass and Vespers on Sundays; mean- 
while, I will find some one, careful and gentle, 
who will take my place while absent on these 
necessary occasions. How often does Dr. Siegel 
come?” 

“Not often now. He is very kind, but he told 
me that my. case is hopeless. He positively re- 
fuses to cut away the — the — cancer, as he calls it. 
Not that I fear the knife,, for there are times 
when I am in such indescribable torture that I 
could tear the thing out with red-hot pincers, 
but he says a surgical operation would be in- 
stantly fatal. He looks in once in a while. I 
have no hope, not the smallest, myself,” she 
said despondingly. 

“Do not lose courage, dear Mrs. Yellott. If 
it will not disturb you, in the morning I will re- 
move all these medicines into the dressing closet, 
and we’ll let in a little fresh air and sunshine; 
then I’ll get some carnations and rosebuds, with 
a few geranium leaves for that vase which is 
empty. ’ ’ 


544 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


“Do whatever you please. It seems so strange 
to hear a refined voice once more, and to see a 
person of my own class about me. If my 
daughters — O Lucia! Lucia! you are more than 
avenged ! ” wailed out the suffering woman, with 
a bitter cry. # 

Lucia thought it best to make no reply, that 
the excitement might the sooner ebb away; she 
got up quietly and mixed a glass of eau sucree 
into which she poured a few drops of orange- 
water that she had sent out to purchase, and 
after a little while persuaded Mrs. Yellott to 
swallow some of it. 

“That is very refreshing. We used to get it 
in Paris,” she remarked, after drinking it all. 

“Yes, I learned to prepare it there, and I am 
so glad you relish it,” answered Lucia. 

It was long past midnight, and feeling that 
she needed and must have a few hours’ rest, Lucia 
lay down upon the sofa at the foot of the bed, 
where she knew that she could hear the slighest 
sound if Mrs. Yellott should require anything, 
and soon fell asleep. 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


545 


CHAPTER XIX. 

WAITING — HOPING. 

Notwithstanding her resolve, Mrs. Yellott’s 
extreme nervous distress, and the lancet-like 
thrusts of pain that pierced her breast, forced her 
to take the opiate she so much dreaded; and af- 
ter some hours of indescribable suffering, a 
leaden slumber stole over her wearied senses, 
just as the first faint streaks of dawn came out of 
the darkness; and when’ Lucia arose she was still 
under the influence of the narcotic, and but for 
the crimson spots upon her cheek-bones, and her 
half-closed eyes, she would have imagined her 
dead, so perfectly motionless was she. 

Tenderly pitying her case, Lucia knelt at the 
foot of the bed, where she could not be seen 
should Mrs. Yellott awake suddenly, and experi- 
enced more than usual fervor as, inspired by a 
divine charity, she offered her devotion for her, 
and pleaded her cause with unshaken confidence 
in the compassion of her who protects with 
jealous, ceaseless vigilance the purchase for 
which her Divine Son paid so great a price. 

After completing her simple toilet in the dress- 
ing room, Lucia, moving noiselessly to and fro, 
brought all the drugs and salves out of Mrs. Yel- 
lott’s apartment and arranged them on a small 
table she found there, near a window, which she 
opened, letting in sunshine and air together. 
The dust, which coated everything, was quietly 
35 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


546 

and lightly wiped off; shreds of lint and scraps 
of various things were gathered up from the 
carpet; she bowed the shutters of a window at 
the far end of the room — which she had raised 
without a sound; then, going down, she inquired 
if there were any flowers growing on the prem- 
ises, and to her delight found quite a variety, 
which she obtained ready permission to cut 
whenever she wished. Clipping a few half- 
blown rosebuds, two or three asters, some gera- 
nium leaves, and a cluster of fine seed-grass, 
Lucia returned with her prize, and arranged 
them with exquisite taste in an empty vase, 
placing them on the table near Mrs. Yellott’s bed, 
just where her eyes would fall upon them the 
first thing when she awoke. By this time the 
foul, sick atmosphere of the apartment was 
changed, a soft fresh current of air drifted in, 
mingling with the fragrance of the flowers. 
All this may seem to have been unnecessary — 
to savor of sentimentality and over nice ideas 
— but it will not appear so to those who have 
experienced prolonged sickness in a darkened 
room with no beautiful sight or sound to break 
the sad monotony, where even the voices we 
love are hushed to low whispers, where we 
grow to be exacting, critical, and in the inter- 
ludes of fever or pain feel that it would do us 
good just to have something changed, and the 
familiar objects which we have got to hate taken 
away, or upset, or turned hind part before, — 
anything just for a little variety. Iq this mood 
of desperate ennui how refreshing the first violets 
— a beautiful rose — a few field daisies even; we 
hold them with tender grasp, we inhale their 
perfume; they bring us news of life, of bright- 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


547 


ness, of sweetness; they dispel like beneficent 
spirits the incubus brooding over our hearts; 
they do us good physically and mentally. 

When Mrs. Yellott opened her heavy eyes she 
saw the change; she saw the flowers and smelt 
their fragrance; she inhaled a breath of the pure 
sweet atmosphere, and remembered who must 
have wrought the change, but she did not speak; 
her heart was full, and slow tears gathered in her 
eyes, which she shaded with her hand lest Lucia 
coming into the room should see them. It was a 
very bitter thought to this haughty woman — 
that her own daughters left her to strangers 
in this her day of suffering, and that she had 
fallen into the hands of her enemy, dependent 
upon her for those gentle ministrations which her 
case demanded, and even for the necessary care 
which money so far had failed to secure. For 
from her standpoint of view, Lucia D’Olivieras 
— although not really so — was her enemy ; and it 
hurt her, it humbled her to accept her kindness 
and good offices. But she was helpless — as help- 
less as one bound hand and foot — in her ordeal 
of pain and suffering; she must accept the humil- 
iation — there was no choice left to her ; but she 
would watch Lucia — she would find out her 
motive, she promised herself, for the woman’s 
nature was too warped by her pride to compre- 
hend the true meaning of the Christian incentive 
to such noble and unselfish conduct. 

It is not my purpose to enter into special de- 
tails of Lucia’s stay with Mrs. Yellott. Suffice 
to say she required all the fortitude and patience 
she could summon to enable her to endure her 
self-imposed trial, and discharge without flinch- 
ing the onerous duties she had assumed. The 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


543 

terrible scenes and sleepless nights that she 
passed through were a severe tax upon her 
nerves, and the poor invalid became at last so 
dependent upon her that she could not bear her 
out of her sight. Her only relaxation was going 
twice a week to meet her classes at Mrs. Von 
Trooinp’s, being present at Mass on Sundays, 
and spending an hour among the children of the 
Sunday-school. The organ was a great solace 
and balm to Lucia; its great solemn waves of 
sound, its sweet clear vibrations, lifted up her 
soul with her voice as she sang, and refreshed 
and compensated her for the weariness and pain 
of her present life. Whenever she left Mrs. 
Yellott, the good woman of the house took her 
place, and following Lucia’s example, tried to 
be as gentle with the invalid as she was really 
kind and well-meaning in her attentions. 

The most terrible thing of all to Lucia was to 
see that Mrs. Yellott sought no religions conso- 
lation whatever, that she not only evaded but 
entirely avoided the subject, which seemed the 
more strange when contrasted with her former 
punctilious attention to the formula of her faith. 
It made Lucia anxious and unhappy: she felt in 
a way responsible for the result, if her courage 
should fail in reminding this apparently dying 
woman of her imperative duties as a Catholic. 
Two or three times she found, as she thought, a 
favorable moment in which to approach the sub- 
ject; but Mrs. Yellott waived it each time, and 
carefully avoided everything that by the remotest 
chance might lead back to it. She laid the case 
before Father Hendrick in the strictest confi- 
dence, who promised to offer a Mass daily for her 
intention, and she redoubled her prayers to Jesus 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


549 


and MaRy in behalf of that soul which was more 
foully diseased than the miserable body it ani- 
mated. 

Two weeks passed by, and there was no change. 
Dr. Siegel had called once or twice to see his 
patient, but did not see Lucia, who left the 
room when he was announced, sending the land- 
lady to take her place until she returned. Mrs. 
Yellott was no better; the disease appeared to be 
making steady progress, and she seemed less 
able to bear the violent paroxysms of pain that 
now came on more frequently than ever. One 
night after one of these attacks, which contin- 
ued two or three hours, she sank back into 
that state of utter languor and prostration that 
always succeeded them, and Lucia, who had 
done all that she could to alleviate her suffering, 
now that she was comparatively easy, sat down 
in the large cushioned chair (Occupied by the in- 
valid during the day, and leaning her head, 
which throbbed and ached dreadfully, upon the 
pillow, drew out her rosary to offer the sacred 
devotion for the poor sufferer. But weary and 
overcome mentally as well as physically by the 
terrible .scene she had just passed through, she 
fell asleep after one decade, her hand drooping by 
her side, and the ruby beads of her rosary which 
hung from it showing like great drops of blood 
against the folds of her soft white wrapper. A 
single ray from the night-lamp shone down upon 
the jewels — shone down upon the cross of gold 
and the image of the Crucified upon it, reveal- 
ing the lines of rare workmanship which gave 
an expression of supreme agony to the whole 
figure. It was an old, old crucifix, fashioned by a 
master hand, and had belonged to a De Medicis — 


550 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


it was about three inches in length — but to Mrs. 
Yellott it looked, with that one ray of light con- 
centrated upon it, ten times larger; it seemed 
pulsing with agonized life: it asked her why she 
had crucified Him? Oh, what thoughts came 
surging up into her heart, like a troop of dark 
phantoms! Her pride, her worldliness, her 
shallow pretensions to a Christian state, stood 
forth in all their naked deformity in contrast 
with the divine charity of Jesus and Mary and 
this their faithful handmaid, who imitated them 
so far as to forgive and do unto her and for her 
all that the most sublime forgiveness could sug- 
gest! Her very pride had made her despair- 
ing; she could not bear the thought of coming, 
through fear of death, to a practice of duties she 
had so long and sacrilegiously abused. “I must 
die!” she whispered bitterly. “Oh, I am afraid! 
but I must die like the brutes that perish. Oh, 
how miserable! how miserable I am!” she 
moaned. 

Lucia, awakened instantly by her moan, asked 
her if she “could do anything for her. ” 

“Oh, no! no! I am sorry I disturbed you.” 

“Let me smooth the pillow, — there, — now 
just a little orange-water; it is so refreshing.” 

“I was just thinking of something, Lucia,” 
she said, after swallowing a mouthful of the iced 
drink. 

“ I hope it was a pleasant something.” 

“No. I was only wondering who your priest 
is?” 

“The priest at St. Gudule’s? Father Hen- 
drick is our pastor. Might I bring him to see 
you, dear Mrs. Yellott? he is so good, and so 
cultivated a gentleman,” answered Lucia, a 
great and sudden hope springing up in her heart. 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 


551 


“No. Lucia, do you know that Dr. Siegel 
was here yesterday while you were at Vespers? 
And he told me, point blank, that he wishes me 
V) consent to a consultation. He says that his 
elixir and other treatment can do me no good, 
and he positively declines any further responsi- 
bility unless there is another medical man called 
in to share it with him. He mentioned some 
doctor’s name, but I have forgotten it. So 
there’s to be a consultation over the case. The 
very idea of it reminds me of ravens gravely 
watching some dying animal, — decorous and 
quiet until its last breath is gone, then — pah ! 
Lucih, don’t let them have iny body to cut up 
after I’m dead ; they say they do it in the inter- 
ests of science, and mine is a curious case, you 
know,” said Mrs. Yellott, bitterly. 

“ Do not allow such horrible thoughts to dis- 
turb you,” said Lucia, holding her wasted hand 
in both her own. 

“Oh, that is nothing to the terrible — I don’t 
know whether they are optical illusions or not — 
to the awful things that come trooping around 
me. I don’t mind them much now, except one, 
a tall veiled thing that always holds up its arm 
as if it were going to strike ; and Lucia, if it 
were to strike it would crush me to death. 
Sometimes I wish it would; then I get afraid of 
going away in the dark. Oh, my God ! what 
should I do all alone in that fearful, unknown 
world ! And the thing never moves after it 
comes, but stands so still ! and I lie watching 
expecting its heavy arm to fall, until I grow 
numb and breathless. It is fearful!” 

“I have heard it said that opium produces 
such phantasms,” said Lucia, touched by the 


552 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


deepest commiseration. “ But, dear Mrs. Yel- 
lott, Father Hendrick — ” 

“Lucia, it depends upon the result of that 
consultation whether or no I ever see a priest 
again. Don’t refer to it any more; it annoys 
me. I suppose these ugly phantoms are the re- 
sult of the opium; thank you for suggesting it. 
I shan’t mind them so much now. Go lie down 
on the lounge, and try to sleep, — but Lucia, let 
me look at your rosary; I shall never lose my 
admiration for beautiful trinkets.” 

Lucia placed the rosary in her hand. “My 
dear Guardian bought it for me from an im- 
poverished nobleman in Florence when we 
were there; it was one of the last relics of his 
princely house, and, of them all, he parted with 
this most reluctantly.” 

“My good, pure brother !” said Mrs. Yellott 
softly, as she passed the curious gems slowly 
through her wasted, trembling fingers. Lucia 
turned away with a silent prayer that the rosary 
in her hands might lead Mrs. Yellott to a more 
saving train of thought; and, lying down, she 
soon fell into a deep slumber. But the suffering, 
desolate woman kept her eyes fixed on the beau- 
tiful blood-red beads, still passing them slowly 
through her fingers for a length of time, until 
moved by some deep impulse she suddenly raised 
the crucifix to her lips and pressed them upon 
the sacred feet of the image of her Lord; then, 
impelled by the grace of God, she whispered a 
“Hail Mary,” saying: “Perhaps she will pity 
me, seeing me so desolate.” This was the act 
and prayer of a heart stricken by a sense of its 
utter helplessness — a pathetic appeal, full of 
a consciousness of unworthiness and expressive 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


553 


of newly-born humility. A touching cry for 
help, it reached the merciful heart of the Refuge 
of Sinners, who had been waiting, as it were, at 
the sealed sepulchre of that soul until the morn- 
ing should come, waiting for it to arise and come 
forth that she might lead it to her Divine Son. 

She fell asleep with the rosary in her hand, 
and when Lucia awoke the next morning it lay 
glittering upon her breast, the crucifix fallen 
upon her heart, where it quivered as the quick 
irregular pulses throbbed beneath it. It was a 
sight full of promise to her; it made her glad 
with a hope beyond any sweetness she had ever 
known, and she experienced in a degree a fore- 
taste of the joy felt by the angels of God over a 
penitent soul. 

After breakfast a note came from Mrs. Von 
Troomp, stating with her usual abruptness that 
“ the girl Daphne has just arrived from Quebec, 
and is at my house; so if you can leave your 
friend for an hour, Miss Lucia, to come and see 
her, I think it will make her very happy. I 
would have brought her to you, but I have 
sprained the muscles of my foot, and Dr. Dean 
has forbidden me to move about. I suppose you 
will be glad to hear that he is well again; and 
he inquired very particularly after you, and 
seemed put out when he heard of your being 
away. ’ ’ 

“Did he so?” thought Lucia — all her timid 
dread of meeting Roger Dean returning in full 
force. “I’m afraid he’ll have to stay 4 put out,’ 
for it will be impossible for me to meet him 
again. I wonder how on earth Mrs. Von 
Troomp sprained the muscles of her foot? And 
what brought that poor child all the way from 


554 


ZC>£’S DAUQHTER. 


Quebec? But there it is ! I shall have to go, at 
the risk of everything; but I will not meet Dr. 
Dean.” 

After making everything comfortable for Mrs. 
Yellott, and leaving her in the care of the woman 
of the house, she went to Mrs. Von Troomp, 
whom she found sitting in her high-backed chair, 
with her bandaged foot upon another, and 
almost buried in heaps of old household linen 
and piles of stockings which she was vigorously 
patching and darning. She was very glad to 
see Lucia, in her grim way, and told her she 
was “sorry she did not come a half hour earlier, 
as Dr. Dean had been there and gone.” Lucia 
felt disposed to say “ Deo gr alias" it was such 
a relief to her to know there was no risk of see- 
ing him; but she made no remark, and began 
straightway to ask numberless questions about 
the hurt foot, then about Daphne, — to all of 
which Mrs. Von Troomp responded in detail, 
glad in her heart to 'have Lucia near her, and to 
be able to sun herself in the smiles she so much 
loved to see. 

“She’s a handsome, modest girl,” said Mrs. 
Von Troomp, speaking of Daphne; “and she’s 
up in your room, Miss Lucia, fixing some flowers 
there.” 

“I’ll go up and speak to her. I’m very glad 
she came. How it will carry me back to my old 
home ! ’ ’ 

Daphne was bending over a glass dish in 
which she was arranging flowers with exquisite 
taste when Lucia went into the room, but she 
was evidently in deep thought and did not hear 
the light footfall she had been all the morning 
listening for oil the threshold. Could it be pos- 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


555 


sible that this tall, beautiful girl, graceful in 
form, lady-like in appearance, was Daphne, who 
when Lucia last saw her about a year and a half 
before was only a well-grown girl of sixteen, 
standing in the doorway of her mother’s cabin 
at “Haylands,” her head crowned with holly 
berries and her clear musical laughter ringing 
out as she tossed her pretty baby brother up and 
down in her arms without a thought of the dark 
fate impending over her! 

Her joy on seeing Lucia was excessive; she 
could only express her happiness in broken sen- 
tences as she sat on the floor at her feet, crying, 
laughing and kissing her hand by turns — the 
hand that had saved her from ruin and given 
her freedom. She told Lucia that she pined so 
to see her, the Sisters of the convent gave her 
permission to come, and had also written a 
letter, which she drew out of her pocket and 
handed to her. Breaking the seal, Lucia read 
with delight the excellent account given by the 
good Religieuses of their protegee ; they found 
her docile, intelligent, and innocent, and her 
amiable, cheerful temper had rendered her a 
universal favorite. 

“This is good news, my dear,” said Lucia, 
smoothing the girl’s soft wavy hair; “and I am 
glad, very glad to see you. I am nursing a sick 
friend, and very little at home; should you like 
to come with me, or stay here?” 

“With you, Miss Lucia; anywhere to be with 
you. I can help you.” 

“So you can. But, Daphne, perhaps you will 
not wish to go when you learn who this friend is ? ” 

“Who is she?” asked the girl, in a low voice. 

“Mrs. Yellott.” 


ZOIS’S DAUGHTER. 


556 

A sudden flush crimsoned the olive face, and 
the great black eyes scintillated with angry fire; 
for an instant the girl’s small beautiful head was 
thrown back like the head of a frightened ante- 
lope, and her crimson lips, barely parted, showed 
her small, even, white teeth gleaming like a 
row of pearls between them. 

u Mrs. Yellott is extremely ill, without a 
friend except myself near her.” 

“And are you her friend, Miss Lucia; and do 
you forgive her?” 

“Yes; else how can I hope to be forgiven? 
Don’t you know that the simple prayer our dear 
Lord taught us is mockery on our lips, offensive 
to Him, and will rise up in judgment agaiust us, 
unless we forgive our enemies? It is hard for 
human nature to do, but it is a condition of our 
salvation; for, unless we forgive, we cannot hope 
to be forgiven.” 

“Do you think she will know me, Miss 
Lucia?” asked Daphne, the fire gone out of her 
eyes and the angry flush from her countenance; 
so surely do the inspirations of grace hold in 
check and subdue the natural man. 

“No fear of that. I do not think Mrs. Yel- 
lott ever saw you; nor do I think she had any 
hand in sending you away; but even had she — 
how then?” 

“I would go with you, Miss Lucia, even if she 
herself had sold me to the trader. I can’t love 
her, and I can’t say that I shall like it; but I 
want to try very hard to do what’s right. I am 
very unforgiving, Miss Lucia; did you know 
that? ” 

“The more merit in store for you, my dear. 
Go, finish fixing the flowers now; then get 


ZOIC’S DAUGHTER. 


557 

ready to go, while I run down and speak with 
Mrs. Von Troornp. ” 

“I am going to take Daphne with me, Mrs. 
Von Troornp. She will be of great assistance to 
me,” said Lucia, resuming her seat near her old 
friend. 

“It’s my belief that you are killing yourself,” 
said Mrs. Von Troornp, looking over the rims of 
her spectacles and suspending her patching for 
a moment; u and I don’t believe that God re- 
quires such heroics, for my part. I’m glad 
you’re going to take the girl — not that I want to 
be rid of her, for she’s very nice, but she’ll 
lighten your labor some, I know. Here’s some 
fine big peaches I have just had gathered; you 
may let Daphne take them along; maybe Mrs. 
Yellott will relish them.” 

This was according to Mrs. Von Troornp’ s way 
— to smite with one hand and heal with the 
other. 

“Mrs. Von Troornp — thanks for the peaches — 
but have you told any one where I am?” asked 
Lucia, lingering a moment. 

“Himmel! How could I when you muzzled 
me, Miss Lucia?” 


558 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XX. 

god’s ways are not as our ways. 

One morning, Mrs. Yellott being compara- 
tively easy, Lucia went to St. Gud tile’s to prac- 
tice the music of a new Mass, leaving Daphne to 
attend to her wants. The quiet ways, the gentle 
voice, and the watchful attention of the pretty 
quadroon girl had quite won upon Mrs. Yellott, 
who had not yet the slightest suspicion who 
she was, or where she came from. When Lucia 
had answered her inquiry upon the subject by 
simply replying, “She came from Quebec,” no 
further questions were asked. Aided by Lucia’s 
instructions and example, Daphne learned with 
instinctive quickness many of the delicate duties 
of taking care of the sick, and proved a most 
able assistant. 

“Any one would suppose, Daphne, that you 
had been under the instructions of Miss D’Olivi- 
eras for years, you do things so exactly like 
her,” said Mrs. Yellott, one day, in an approv- 
ing manner. 

“I am very glad you think so, ma’am,” re- 
plied the girl, turning away on some pretence to 
conceal the crimson flush that had surged up 
into her face. 

Lucia had several times suggested to Mrs. 
Yellott to let some of her old friends in New 
York know that she was there; but the very 
thought of it seemed to pain her, and the last 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


559 


time it was spoken of, she said, with bitter emo- 
tion: “There’s not one of them all that I should 
like to see; they are worldly, frivolous people 
who would shrink from me, in the state I am in, 
as from fire. No, no! I want none of them; 
their presence would only increase my wretched- 
ness;” which left nothing more to be urged on 
that point. 

“O, Miss Lucia,” said Daphne, who had been 
waiting on the stoop watching for her to come 
back, u the doctors have been here, and are still 
in the house, but not in Mrs. Yellott’s room. 
They are shut up in the parlor talking, and she 
sent me down to wait for you and beg you to 
come to her the moment you came.” 

“Did you hear the names of the doctors?” 
asked Lucia, much agitated. 

“ No, Miss Lucia, I only saw them. One was 
old and short, and dressed in snuff-colored 
clothes; the other was a tall, noble-looking gen- 
tleman. ’ ’ 

Something assured Lucia who this “tall, 
noble-looking gentleman” was, and her swift 
impulse was to fly from the house to avoid meet- 
ing him; but how could she abandon her help- 
less charge, the care of whom she had voluntarily 
assumed, at so critical a moment as this ? how 
turn her back on a duty, by the exercise of 
which she hoped to discipline her soul in charity 
and patience, for mere selfish motives? There 
was no cowardice in Lucia’s nature, morally 
or physically; so after the first surprise, she 
placed her hope in the superhuman strength of 
grace for help in the completion of her work, 
and determined to take up this new cross with 
courage, and accept whatever humiliation it 


zoe’s daughter. 


560 

might bring her as something belonging to the 
order of Divine Providence. She went up stairs, 
and, laying aside her hat and mantle, entered 
Mrs. Yellott’s room. 

“O, Lucia! thank God you have come,” she 
said, holding out her hand ; “I was so afraid that 
you would not get back in time ! The doctors 
are here. I did not expect them to-day, or I 
would have told you. Come sit here close by me 
and hold my hand, while I wait for the verdict 
of life or death.” 

“Try to be composed, and let us ask the help 
of our Blessed Mother of Sorrows for courage and 
submission,” whispered Lucia, full of a tender 
pity for this afflicted being whose life, whose 
eternal future perhaps, was hanging in the 
balance. 

“It is awful, Lucia, this waiting. They have 
been down stairs an hour. I can hear the muffled 
sounds of their voices as they come up through 
the ceiling, and know they are weighing my 
chances for life or death ! What can they be 
saying? Oh, it is intolerable ! Why don’t they 
come and let me know the worst?” 

“My dear Mrs. Yellott,” said Lucia, tenderly, 
as -she drew out her rosary and placed the cruci- 
fix in the attenuated hand she held, “think how 
He suffered to give us strength in such straits as 
these. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I know it! I know it, but I can think 
of nothing now. I am despairing — despairing, 
body and soul! But listen! they have stopped 
talking! The door opens! They are coming! 
O, Lucia, I shall go mad if they tell me there’s 
no hope.” 

With measured steps the two physicians as- 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 561 

cended the stairs and came quietly into the room 
— Dr. Siegel and Dr. Dean. Both started when 
they saw Lucia, for Mrs. Von Troomp had kept 
the knowledge of her whereabouts in the sealed 
book of her own breast; but Roger Dean’s fine 
face suddenly lit up as if a flash of sunlight had 
shone athwart it, and Dr. Siegel was only re- 
strained by the serious significance of the mo- 
ment from launching a tirade of broken English 
at her; for until that moment he had been at 
his wits’ end wondering where she might be. 
But nothing beyond a grave and polite saluta- 
tion was in order now, and Lucia felt thankful 
that more important considerations covered the 
awkwardness of the first meeting with both of 
them. 

“Madam,” said Roger Dean in his low, clear 
voice as he drew a chair to the side of Mrs. 
Yellott, and took her cold trembling hand in his, 
while her burning gaze was fixed piercingly on 
his eyes, “I am happy to be able to tell you 
that there is hope. This is not a cancerous affec- 
tion you are suffering from, and with God’s help 
we can cure you.” ^ . 

“Are you telling me the truth?” she asked 
with white, trembling lips. “Don’t, don’t for 
God’s sake, deceive me with false hopes.” 

“Be assured, madam, on that point. As far 
as human knowledge goes in this case, you 
need have no doubts. The disease, until recent 
discoveries in Europe, has been considered can- 
cerous; but experiment has proved that not only 
is this a mistake, but that the malady is curable. 
I have had two cases apparently as extreme 
as yours, and both yielded to the remedies ap- 
plied — slowly, to be sure, but there was a radi- 


562 


zoe’s daughter. 


cal cure effected. Now take courage,” said 
Roger Dean, with a gentle emphasis which could 
not fail to impart hope to the desponding woman. 

“I knew, matam, since von month ago, dot 
if mine elixir vould not do, it vas not cancer, 
and I consult at vonce mit my goot friend, Dr. 
Tean,” said Dr. Siegel with a flourishing old 
country bow. 

Mrs. Yellott was overcome; her eyes were 
closed, and great tears chased each other over 
her wasted cheeks; she pressed Lucia’s crucifix 
close, close to her side, feeling ready then to 
offer the life so graciously spared to God on His 
own conditions. 

“If this disease had progressed beyond a given 
point there would have been no hopes of a cure; 
but the examination proves that it has not yet 
reached that climax — thanks to Dr. Siegel for 
his vigilance in watching its progress.” 

“Dot is all very proper and handsome, mine 
goot Tean,” said Dr. Siegel, with a twinkle of 
merriment in his small brown eyes. “I under- 
standt. Now, matam, I leave you in Dr. Tean’s 
hands, and I congratulate you mit all my heart. 
I vill come in some day to see you mooch better. 
Goot morning! ” 

“Thanks, Dr. Siegel. Do come. I am so 
agitated. Thank him for me, Lucia,” said Mrs. 
Yellott. 

“So! How do you be, Mees Lucia? and vere 
have you peen hiding from your friends?” said 
the quaint old man. 

“I am very glad to see you, Dr. Siegel, but I 
have not been hiding. Mrs. Yellott is an old 
friend, and I came to stay awhile with her. Mrs. 
Yellott has frequently spoken of your kindness 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


563 

and attention, and will never forget all that you 
have done,” said Lucia, accompanying him to 
the head of the steps. 

“You are very goot, Mees Lucia,” answered 
Dr. Siegel, beaming on her. “So, it is a great 
relief to mine heart to know dat you are not yet 
gone to heaven! Now, goot-bye, mine dear — 
mine elixir saved your life, but den it vas differ- 
ent from the poor lady in dere mit you.” Dr. 
Siegel lifted Lucia’s hand to his lips and kissed 
it in the courtly fashion of the times, and went 
away. When she returned to Mrs. Yellott, Dr. 
Dean was standing ready to leave, and was 
saying: 

“I leave you in good hands, madam,” then 
turning to Lucia, held out his hand and said: 
“I hope you are well, Miss D’ Oli vieras ? ” 

“Quite well, thanks,” she answered, quietly 
and with apparent coldness, although the deep- 
ening rose-hue of her cheeks contradicted it. 

“She has been everything to me, Dr. Dean,” 
said Mrs. Yellott, in low, faint tones. 

“We are old, old friends, Mrs. Yellott and 
myself. She is the sister of my dear guardian, 
and I am bound to her by many deep ties of 
grateful remembrance. I learned that she was 
here sick, and I came to her, that’s all,” said 
Lucia, speaking quickly. 

“Mrs. Yellott is happy in the accident that 
brought you, I’m sure,” he answered gravely; 
then he turned to a table to write certain direc- 
tions to be observed in administering the various 
remedies he purposed sending, which were to be 
prepared by himself. These remedies were to 
be taken alternately, and Roger Dean explained 
to Lucia that he wrote the directions to save 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


564 

her trouble and avoid confusing them. “It 
seems scarcely necessary where there’s an intelli- 
gent nurse, but it simplifies matters, I think.” 

“There can be no doubt of that. Without 
them I -should feel the responsibility to be 
almost too much. Thanks,” replied Lucia. 

And with such commonplaces, these two, the 
depths of whose hearts were stirred towards each 
other with a pure and exalted sentiment, separ- 
ated as the veriest strangers might have done. 

“ Lucia,” said Mrs. Yellott, when they were 
left alone, “come close to me; I have something 
to say to you. Do you know that the unex- 
pected hope that has been given me to-day has 
strangely moved me? I am so thankful for the 
merciful goodness of God — and I so unworthy — 
that I vow to devote myself to His service, liv- 
ing or dying. It is not a sudden thing, for I 
have been miserable beyond expression, but it 
seemed so slavish to go to Him for comfort be- 
cause I feared death. I was afraid of my own 
motives, my own pride; I feared that He would 
cast me out for my long unfaithfulness. Now I 
know by this sign that His wrath will not endure 
forever, and I must lose no more time. Will 
you go to Father Hendrick, and get him to come 
and see me at once, lest my courage fail?” 

Overjoyed, Lucia bowed her head upon Mrs. 
Yellott’s hand to hide her tears of thankfulness; 
then pressing it to her lips, she could only 
signify by a few brief words her readiness to go. 

“But, Lucia, before you go I must have your 
forgiveness. Forgive me, Lucia, for all the pain 
of the past, that through my fault befell you?” 
she said humbly. 

“Never think of anything of that sort again; 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 565 

let the dead past bury its dead ! O, Mrs. Yellott, 
how I rejoice with you ! ” exclaimed Lucia. 

Mrs. Yellott’s conversion was a true one ; 
and, as if Almighty God blessed her in it in a 
twofold sense, an improvement in her health be- 
came apparent in a short time. It is true the 
paroxysms of pain still came, almost tearing her 
body and soul asunder; but she was now fortified 
by the Sacraments, and a strong desire to unite 
her sufferings in a spirit of resignation with the 
bitter passion of her Redeemer; there was a 
touching humility in her devotion to the Mother 
of Sorrows, accompanied by a trust and hope 
that brought the penitent woman nearer than 
ever before to the feet of her Divine Son. 
Father Hendrick came frequently to visit her, 
not only consoling her in his character of spiri- 
tual adviser, but impressing her, by his intelli- 
gence and cheerful conversation, as a refined and 
cultivated gentleman, in the most agreeable 
manner. 

Although Lucia tried her best to avoid it, Dr. 
Dean found many opportunities of conversing 
with her, his patient forming the common topic, 
which she in her character of nurse and friend 
could not by any possibility elude without posi- 
tive rudeness. Twice he walked home from St. 
Gudule’s with her after Vespers, but in all this 
intercourse no allusion was made by either of 
them to the “high-tide at the salt marshes;” 
never a word except of the most friendly charac- 
ter passed between them, while Father Hen- 
drick and Mrs. Von Troomp, looking on 
patiently and hopefully, watched the gradual 
progress of affairs. 

One day when Lucia was there, Mrs. Von 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


566 

Troomp, whose foot continued lame, told her 
that she was going to bring her old pensioner, 
the blind colored woman, to her house, if she 
had no objection. 

“None in the world; but why?” 

“I have several reasons, Miss Lucia. Roger 
Dean tells me that the poor old soul is unhappy 
at not seeing me, and thinks that she is not so 
well cared for as she might be. Another is, that 
Jacob Astor wants to make me sell my house 
and garden, whether or no; he’s been here a 
half-dozen times, and I know he wouldn’t be so 
anxious to get it if he hadn’t a good reason for 
it; he’s too shrewd by far to buy property that 
don’t promise great profits some time or other. 
But I shan’t let him skin me like he does his 
beavers, because he says my house is too big 
for a lone woman. I’m going to show him I 
am not so lone as he thinks, by filling it up. 
You may fetch Mrs. Yellott here if you choose — 
you know you spoke about it once — you and 
Daphne will be stationary, and when the old 
darkey comes my house will be pretty full. 
Does Mrs. Yellott still wish to move her quar- 
ters, Miss Lucia?” 

“Yes, indeed. That is a splendid idea, Mrs. 
Von Troomp. She will be near Father Hen- 
drick and St. Gudule’s; then she will have such 
a lovely outlook here, instead of the dirty, 
crowded streets and hot brick walks which she 
sees now whenever she goes to her windows. 
Do you know she walks all about her room 
now?” 

“That’s good news, poor lady! Miss Lucia, 
you have done a good work, and I take shame 
to myself for having ever said a word against it. ’ ’ 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


567 

“Almighty God has done a great work for 
that soul, and in His own grand, generous way,” 
said Lucia reverently. “I did but little.” 

“Maybe not!” said Mrs. Von Troomp, dryly. 
“But bring her along when she’s ready. 
There’s that big unoccupied bed-room and 
dressing-closet adjoining yours; if you think it 
will do, that she can have. I’m only afraid it is 
too old-fashioned for her.” 

“I can answer that it will not be. She has a 
great fondness for old-fashioned furniture, and 
yours will delight her. Oh, I shall be very, very 
glad to get back home!” 

“Will you, my child!” said the good woman 
softly. 

“Yes, indeed, you dear old friend,” replied 
Lucia, kissing her cheek, for Mrs. Von Troomp 
never kissed anybody; she let herself be kissed 
on rare occasions, but it was like kissing a 
wooden image. Whenever Lucia kissed her, tho’, 
she loved her so that it went right down to her 
heart and warmed it up; but she made no sign 
all the same. 

Dr. Dean brought Mrs. Yellott to Mrs. Von 
Troomp’ s in a large, softly-cushioned carriage 
which had been placed at his disposal for the 
occasion. She bore the fatigue of removal 
bravely; indeed the fresh air and new scenes re- 
vived her wonderfully, while the quaint old 
apartments and the antique furniture of her new 
abode quite delighted her. She embraced Lucia 
with grateful tenderness, saying: “But for yon, 
child, where should I have been? what would 
have become of me?” 

That night she opened her heart fully to 
Lucia, telling her the history of her bitter trials 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


568 

at “Haylands” — the neglect of her daughters, 
who could find no time to spare from their con- 
stant round of idle, frivolous pleasures, to devote 
an hour to her; and last of all her anguish in 
the discovery, which his own conduct forced 
upon her, of the unprincipled wickedness of her 
idolized son. “And, oh Lucia,” she added in 
conclusion, “when I reflect that the example of 
my pride and worldliness, and the surface reli- 
gion that I impressed upon my children instead 
of sound Catholic principles, laid the foundation 
of their shortcomings and my son’s apostasy, I 
am overwhelmed with remorse, and all anger is 
swallowed up in an absorbing, yearning desire 
for their conversion. Help them, Lucia, by 
your prayers. ’ ’ 

“I will, dear Mrs. Yellott,” answered Lucia, 
deeply moved. 

“Father Hendrick has promised Masses and 
prayers for them; but, Lucia, do you know I 
think Almighty God will listen especially to 
your prayers for us, because you have forgiven 
us so much: He will not let the being He has 
created outdo Him in mercy and generosity.” 

And so they talked together until a late hour, 
when Mrs. Yellott, having said her rosary with 
Lucia for the conversion of her family, fell into 
a calm sleep. 

Mrs. Von Troomp, true to her word, brought 
her old pensioner to her house and established 
her in a basement room where the sun came into 
the windows, and in which a door opened right 
out 011 the prettiest part of the garden; but she 
was so crippled with rheumatism and walked 
with such difficulty that she could get no farther 
than the window or door-sill, where she sat daily, 


zoe’s daughter. 569 

inhaling the fragrance of grass and flowers, while 
she knitted. 

One morning, a day or two after all these new 
arrangements were carried into effect, Lucia re- 
ceived a double letter from Father Jannison and 
Mr. Allston, giving her the pleasing intelligence 
that they were both ready to start for New York 
— Mr. Allston to attend a meeting of the Cincin- 
nati Society, and at the same time be the guest 
of his old friend John Jay, who would soon leave 
the United States on a diplomatic mission; 
Father Jannison to see his Provincial, who had 
summoned him thither on some special business 
of the Order, which was to be settled before he 
sailed for Rome. Both inquired if she had 
heard anything of Mrs. Yellott, whose children 
had not received a line from her since she left 
Haylands. 

“And with reason,” thought Lucia. “But 
this is good, good news! O Padre mio , how 
rejoiced I shall be to see you, and good Mr. 
Allston too! However, I must be careful how 
I mention it to Mrs. Yellott. Oh, how glad 
Father Jannison will be to hear of her conver- 
sion, and see how changed she is by the grace of 
God! — there’s something in her face now that is 
so like my dear Guardy; and she thinks I don’t 
see the struggles she has with her old self! Ah 
how this lesson has taught me to curb my im- 
petuous, too impulsive will! And now I think 
of it, I must find time to go down and be intro- 
duced to Mrs. Von Troomp’s blind charge to-day 
or to-morrow. I can read to her, if I can do 
nothing else.” 

Lucia was walking slowly up and down a long, 
wide, clematis-covered arbor, the pride of Mrs. 


570 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


Von Troomp’s garden, where she had gone to 
read her letters; and in the fulness of her con- 
tent she began to sing a little Spanish song that 
her mother had taught her when a child, and 
which she used to sing over and again for Allan 
Brooke after she went to live at Haylands. Her 
thoughts were winging their soft swift flight to 
those early scenes about which religion and time 
had cast a sad but fair halo, and unconsciously 
to herself her voice floated out, trilling clearly 
and sweetly the old bolero , when suddenly a 
voice cried out somewhere near her, in a high- 
pitched, frightened tone; “Miss Lucy, wliar is 
you ? ’ ’ 


57 1 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XXL 

SURPRISES. 

Startled by the familiar voice, and won- 
dering where it came from, for it seemed to have 
dropped out of the sky, Lucia looked around; 
but seeing no one, she rose from her seat and 
came out of the summer-house, and there, stand- 
ing in the doorway of her room, with her arms 
outstretched as if trying to grasp something in 
the air, she beheld Maum Chloe. The next 
moment she was in her arms, folded close to the 
old woman’s faithful heart. 

“O Lord ! let me die now !” she cried, while 
great tears streamed over her wrinkled cheeks. 
“ I felt it in my bones all ’long that I’d see you 
ag’in, my lilly Missis, and now you is come at 
larst. I know’d your voice singin’ the old song 
you used to sing for me when you was a little 

gal-” 

“ But where did you drop from ? and how did 
you get here?” asked Lucia, leading her to a 
chair and fixing a pillow at her back. “Tell 
me all about it, while I sit here and lean upon 
your knees like I used to do when I sang for 
you. Oh, I’m very, very glad to have you here ! 
but tell me how you came ? ’ ’ 

“I corned out of the deep waters, honey. I 
was drowndin,’ for the waves was risin’ round 
me, when a strong man lifted me up and put 
me in a boat ’long with v my bundle, that had 


572 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


the old Brooke Bible that Mars’ Allan give me 
in it; ’cept that, I lost everything I had in the 
world.” 

“I am glad it is safe. Never mind the other 
losses, Mauminy; they shall all be made good, 
and we’ll never part again.” 

“Honey, I’se got you and it; I don’t want 
nothin’ else,” said Maum Chloe, folding her 
hands, and raising her sightless eyes towards 
heaven. 

“ When did you come to New York?” asked 
Lucia, deeply touched. 

“ Long ago; I don’t know how long. I come 
to look for you, but nobody couldn’t tell me any- 
thing, and I — for you know, honey, my eyes 
give out at larst, 1 cried so much I b’lieve the 
sight was washed outen ’em — had to set with 
my hands folded, doin’ nothin’. I couldn’t 
stand the high doin’s at ‘Haylands,’ honey, and 
Mars’ Frank he was all the time threatenin’ to 
send me out of the State, and I was afeard he 
might take it in his head to send me further 
Souf — he’s plenty bad enuff, Miss Lucy — so 
one night I coined away, bag and baggage, in a 
Yankee vessel that was in the river gettin’ a 
load of tobacca; Bligli helped me off, for I was 
afeard to tell -the other niggers, on ’count of its 
gettin’ them in trouble if it was found out. You 
know how ’ tis down tliar, Miss Lucy?” 

“Yes; you did very right; but why did you 
not move over to ‘Buckrae?’ Mr. Allston 
would have taken care of you, and I left word 
with Father Jannison.” 

“I know you did, honey — they both told me 
— but you see, Miss Lucy, I never had nothin’ 
to do with low white folks in my life, and I was 


573 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 

afeard ‘Buckrae House,’ big as it is, wouldn’t 
be big enough to hold me and Miss Meggs. 
Then I wanted you. I had a heap of money — 
you know Mars Allan and you was always givin’ 
me money, and I never spent any, year in and 
year out — I had no ’casion to, for everythin’ was 
provided for me; and arfter I got here I was 
comfortable enough — only I didn’t like livin’ 
’long with poor white folks — until the flood 
come, and you heerd how they was gwine to 
leave me thar to drown if it hadn’t been for 
Mars’ Dean. Oh, if I could only jest see him 
once! But, honey, is you sure I ’aint dreamin’? 
I has had dreams like this so often!” 

“No; you are not dreaming now, you proud 
old Maummy !” said Lucia, with a loud merry 
laugh, happy at heart to hear Roger Dean’s 
noble deed spoken of by one who could neither 
note the flush on her cheek nor the brightening 
of her eyes called up by the memory of it. 

“Let me pars my hand over your face, Miss 
Lucy, and see’” 

Lucia threw back her head a little, and Mauin 
Chloe, with light, careful touches, passed her 
fingers over her head, face, throat, shoulders 
and arms, and filially held her two slender hands 
folded between her own dusky, gnarled ones. 

“They ’aint growed a bit; it’s you, honey, 
sure enuff — may our Lord and His Blessed 
Mother be praised forever. But tell me, my lilly 
Missis, how the Yankees* treats you?” 

“Oh, very well. I have met with much kind- 
ness, and have been living with Mrs. Von 
• 

*So the blacks south of Mason’s and Dixon’s line were in 
the habit of calling all who lived north of it. 


574 


ZOIC’S DAUGHTER. 


Troomp ever since I came here, and she has been 
the best of friends to me.” 

“What! the madam that’s been so good to me? 
All this time, and I never knowin’ it! — and here 
under the same roof with you a whole week! 
Lord, Thy ways is parst findin’ out!” exclaimed 
Maum Chloe. 

“It does seem strange. But what will you 
say when you hear that Daphne is here, in this 
house, with me?” 

“G’long now, Miss Lucy, you’s funnin’ !” 

“No, indeed; I am telling you the truth. But 
I can’t tell you about that now, for there’s some- 
thing else that will astonish you still more. Mrs. 
Yellott is also here, living in this house.” 

“In this house? with you, Miss Lucy?” 

“Yes, Maum Chloe, but so changed in heart 
and mind that you would hardly know her for 
the same person. She is the most true and 
loving friend I have in the world. She has been 
very ill and liked to have died” — 

“I bet Mar’s Dean cured her!” said Maum 
Chloe softly, while a smile brightened her dusky, 
wrinkled face. 

“She has had many severe trials, and her 
heart, was almost broken by them.” 

“And no wonder, with sich a pack of children! 
They a’ most broke her heart ’fore I coined away 
— but tell me ’bout it, honey.” 

Lucia told her then as much as was neces- 
sary to give her an understanding about how 
matters were, and dwelt on Mrs. Yellott’ s fright- 
ful sufferings — her changed life, and how she 
had been, by the mercy of God, cured by Dr. 
Dean. 

“Miss Ellen was a hard one, honey, and it 


ZOI$’S DAUGHTER. 


575 


took a heap to break her in, I ’spect,” said 
Maum' Chloe, musingly. “Don’t you tell her 
I’m here, Miss Lucy; she’d be mad, sure.” 

“No, I can answer for that. She will not be 
angry; I think she will be glad to have an op- 
portunity to see and speak with you again; but 
I will be careful, my dear old Maummy, depend 
upon that. Now I have yet another surprise for 
you which will rejoice your heart,” said Lucia, 
smoothing the old dark hand she held: “Father 
Jannison and Mr. Allston are both on their way 
to New York.” 

At first Maum Chloe could not speak; but 
covering her face with her hands, her heart 
found relief in tears of joy. Like all her race, 
she was deeply emotional, and now lifting her 
hands and blind eyes upwards, she exclaimed: 

“Praise the Lord for all His mercies! He led 
me when I couldn’t see; He brung me out of 
the waters when the flood was nigh rollin’ over 
my head, right smack to them I never could ha’ 
found by myself with my two eyes like they 
used to be. And now, my lilly Missis, jest let 
me hold your head agin my breast like I used to 
do at 1 Haylands ’ when you was a chile goin’ to 
sleep in my arms.” 

“Indeed you shall,” said Lucia, leaning her 
head upon Maum Chloe’ s breast, who folded her 
arms about her, and presently, carried away by 
her fancies, began to croon a quaint old negro 
lullaby that sounded to Lucia like the echo of 
a far-off dream. 

“Gott! ” exclaimed a voice near them, in tones 
of the most concentrated astonishment and ex- 
citement. Lucia lifted her head, and looking 
round saw Mrs. Von Trooinp standing as if pet- 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


576 

rified in the middle of the floor, holding a tray 
containing Maum Chloe’s supper in her hand, 
surveying the scene. 

“Oh, Mrs. Von Troomp, this is my dear old 
Maum Chloe, and I have only just found her! 
She heard me singing out there under the clem- 
atis, and knew my voice,” said Lucia, rising to 
meet her. “And to think you have been taking 
care of her all these weeks, and I, so near, never 
to know it.” 

“Miss Lucia,” said Mrs. Von Troomp, sol- 
emnly, as she placed the tray on Maum Chloe’s 
knees, “it’s the strangest thing I ever saw in all 
my life. When I came, I seemed to know how 
it was the instant I saw you, and I declare I felt 
just exactly like I did the day Roger Dean gave 
me a galvanic shock, with his wires and things, 
for the rheumatism — just such a tingling in all 
my nerves.” 

“That’s the same one, honey, as saved my 
life, and I ’aint never been able to thank him 
yet, for I git choked whenever I try; and lie’s 
that delicate he wouldn’t let me, if I could; but 
you' ll thank him, Miss Lucy — you kin tell him 
how I feels — you kin put it buckra words that’ll 
make him know how grateful I is. Won’t you 
now ? ’ ’ 

“I am sure that he knows, Maummy; but I 
will tell him, when I see him, all that you 
wish,” answered Lucia, while the carnation tint 
deepened in cheeks. The circle was narrowing 
around her; she wondered how she should ever 
be able to speak of that day to Roger Dean with- 
out betraying herself? 

At this moment footsteps were heard in the 
hall above, which each one present recognized 
as his. 


ZOK’S DAUGHTER. 


5 77 


“Thar he is now!” whispered Mautn Chloe. 

“I must run and gather up my papers that I 
left in the arbor. I will come to you at bed- 
time to read to you,” said Lucia, in trembling 
haste. 

“Don’t go, Miss Lucy!” entreated the old 
woman; “I want you to tell him now; that’s 
him coinin’ down stairs!” 

“I will see Dr. Dean when he comes again, 
but I must go now and get my letters,” said 
Lucia, flitting out of the door, down the garden 
walk, as Dr. Dean came in to inquire the state 
of his old patient’s aching joints. 

Having gained the vine-roofed arbor, Lucia 
threw herself in a corner of the rustic seat, and 
leaned back, trembling in every limb as if she 
had escaped a threatened danger, some crisis in 
her life that was approaching nearer and nearer, 
which she could no longer hope to avoid. 

“ How foolish I am! how superstitious it 
seems to believe in presentiments ; and they are 
not even presentiments, only some nerve-distur- 
bance; I don’t know myself what they are. It 
is silly in one so little given to sentiment and 
romance as I am. But I have a talisman which 
will rid me of these disturbing fancies,” said 
Lucia, as she drew out her rosary to solace the 
perturbation of her heart. Here was her anchor 
and sure stay; come what might, and though 
the clouds might gather and hang low, covering 
her with gloom, or rave in wild tempests around 
her — or though the trouble which she felt draw- 
ing near should be one of those “ little foxes that 
destroy the green vines ” of hope in the heart, or 
blight, by weary waiting, the merit of renuncia- 
tion, Lucia’s devotion to the compassionate 
37 


578 ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 

Mother of Jesus never failed to console and 
strengthen her. 

To trouble Heaven with little things may ap- 
pear to some like a silly piece of business; but 
life is made up of little things , and if the guidance 
of them is left to chance we straightway drift 
into dangerous waters, far from the protection 
and mercy of God, almost out of sight of the fair 
star that brightens life’s horizon. This child- 
like simplicity and trust, which should permeate 
our daily life, builds up the edifice of our salva- 
tion in the end, like the tiny coral insect that by 
patient toil builds up grand islands whose founda- 
tions lie in the depths of the sea, and again-st 
which neither tempest nor waves can prevail. It 
is not in great or heroic acts that true merit lies, 
for human pride is so apt to creep in to tarnish the 
purity of their gold — but it is in bearing the 
wearying burden of daily life, its cares without 
fame, its crosses without glory, its unfulfilled 
hopes, its long, patient waiting, its bereavements, 
its losses, its smarts from the injustice or ingrati- 
tude of others, its renunciations, and the ceaseless 
warfare within, that we find need of supernatural 
help, and by it gain at last a passport to that rest 
where are to be found those who “ have gone up 
through much tribulation.” Let no one, then, 
count as foolishness that simple faith which 
throws every care, small as well as great, upon 
the help of heaven; for the uses of religion are to 
govern the old by the new life, to transform the 
earthly into a supernatural existence, and conse- 
crate our human thoughts and acts, the common- 
est occurrences of our daily struggle with mun- 
dane things, and everything that may befall us, 
by referring all, whether of weal or woe, for 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


579 

solace or strength, to the will and good pleasure 
of Him in whom our hope lieth. 

While Lucia recited her loved devotions her 
heart grew calm. The light faded out of the 
west; a faint breath of the perfumed south wind 
now and then whispered Sibylline poetry among 
the leaves; the twitter of birds was' hushed, 
while with heads behind their wings they 
dreamed of a sun-bright morrow; and the new 
moon, like a silver boat, floated out of the twi- 
light, amidst the fleecy, white clouds that chased 
each other like snowy swans over the purple 
depths of the sky. The absence of all earthly 
sounds made the silence almost holy; and the 
soul could, in such a scene, offer, like incense, 
its profound adoration to Almighty God through 
the perfection of His works without a sensuous 
or distracting thought; and Lucia, yielding to 
the influence of the hour, which soothed her 
into sweet memories of other days, still sat there 
under the clematis vines, with the moonlight 
flickering through them in grotesque arabesques 
over her form. She was disturbed in her reverie 
by an approaching footstep — they were coming 
to tell her tea was waiting; but no! it was not 
Daphne’s light tread, it was too firm and quick 
as it rang on the smooth, gravelled walk, and 
Lucia by a swift intuition knew that at last 
Roger Dean was coming to speak words to 
which she must listen. Her first impulse was 
to slip away out of the opposite end of the 
summer-house, and evade for the time what she 
knew must inevitably come at last; but she hes- 
itated, and the next moment, guided by her 
white dress, which looked luminous under the 
quivering, silvery shadows, he was standing be- 
fore her. 


580 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


“I have been waiting for you, “ he said, with- 
out preface or apology; “but not coining, I have 
sought and found you, with a wild hope in my 
heart that you will not send me away. Will 
you sit here with me a little while, Miss D’Oliv- 
ieras? . I have something to say which too nearly 
cqncerns the peace’ of my life to be left longer 
unsaid.” 

Lucia, whiter than her moonlighted dress, 
had risen, but she suffered him to lead her to 
the rustic seat; he placed 'himself by her side, 
never letting go her hand, which he had taken 
when he first came, and somehow, after all, she 
felt like a snared bird that is content with its 
captivity; at least she made no resistance, but 
obeyed this master spirit whose strong influence 
over her life she had so long struggled against. 
Then he told her, in calm level tones, the old, 
old story of human love — the old idyl, which 
only a true, living faith can consecrate and 
make real — and pleadLhis cause so well, that 
although she gave him no promise or assur- 
ance, she neither repulsed nor left him without 
hope. She told him of the expected arrival of 
two friends from the South, who were to her as 
guardians, having known her ever since she was 
taken to Virginia by her mother, whom they 
had also known in her childhood; until they 
came, she asked that the subject might not be 
renewed. 

“But is there no spontaneous sentiment for 
me, Lucia, which without hurt to your delicate 
modesty you can express?” he asked, wounded 
and disappointed. 

“The fault of my life,' Dr. Dean,” she an- 
swered, presently, ‘ ‘ has been my strong natural 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 


581 

impulsiveness, which I have been for years try- 
ing to bring into some sort of subjection, until 
deliberation has become a habit. I have got into 
a way of looking things in the face, and weigh- 
ing them for and against, even in small matters; 
but in a momentous affair which will influence 
the weal or woe of a lifetime, there is more cause 
than ever for grave thought.” 

“While I admit the justice of all you say, 
relieve my suspense by frankly answering one 
question. Does my offer in any way affect the 
happiness of your life, Lucia?” lie asked. 

“It does,” she almost whispered. 

“Thanks for the hope. I can wait with good 
heart now,” he said, elate and contented. 

“We will go in now, if you please,” said 
Lucia, rising; “ I fear Mrs. Yellott may be want- 
ing me.” Her heart was very full, for he had 
told her that he had loved her ever since the first 
day he saw her in the stage-coach when they 
were both on their way to New York; how, ever 
since, she had never been out of his mind; how 
he had searched for her, and when almost de- 
spairing of ever seeing her again, he had unex- 
pectedly found her at St. Gudule’s, guided to her 
by her voice; how he had longed but never dared 
to declare his sentiments; and how her patience 
in adversity, her nobleness of soul and womanly 
virtues had won, since he knew her, a more 
sacred niche in his affections than even the first 
strong feelings inspired by her beauty and grace- 
ful refinement of manner. He told her of his 
long, lonely, unloved existence, and that he 
looked to her to give it completeness and unity, 
so that one in faith, love and purpose, they 
might accomplish together the scope of their 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


582 

true destiny according to the designs of Provi- 
dence. This wooing was not like the wooing 
pictured by poets and roman cists, or sung by 
the old troubadours; it was the simple decla- 
ration of an earnest, noble soul which might be 
safely confided in and trusted; and now that it 
was all over, a strange, restful calm took posses- 
sion of Lucia, as if sli$ had suddenly anchored 
in a safe port after stormy seas. 

“I must leave you here,” she said, as they 
approached the door of Maunr Chloe’s room. 
“Did you know that the blind woman you res- 
cued that day of the ‘high tide’ was my old Vir- 
ginia Maummy?” Strangely forgetful all at once 
of her old dread lest he should find out her agency 
in saving him, she asked him that; while he, 
with a great happiness expanding his generous 
heart, held her secret close and sacred in his 
own breast until such time as he could devote to 
her the life she had saved; then he would tell 
her that he knew it all along. The bird that he 
hoped would leave his heart “nevermore,” was 
a shy, sensitive thing, and he must be careful 
lest it should flutter away from his hand and 
never return. He had divined Lucia’s motive in 
avoiding him ever since Joel Winkle’s revela- 
tion, and while he had longed to see and talk 
with her, he was content to rest on the hope it 
inspired. 

“I heard it only an hour ago from my poor 
old patient, and you can’t know how glad it 
made me,” he answered. 

“ Ah, if I had only known it sooner, how many 
sorrowful hours my poor old Mauinmy would 
have been spared! She bade me tell you how 
grateful she is to you for all that you have done, 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


583 

and now I add my thanks to hers,” said Lucia, 
as she extended her hand and bade him “ Good- 
night.” 

Roger Dean held her hand for a moment 
closely folded in his own, and Lucia saw, as the 
moon, now setting, shone level on his face, that 
a great happiness had settled upon it, softening 
away its firm, grifri lines, and imparting to his 
eyes a tender light which irradiated his counte- 
nance and seemed to restore to it the buoyant 
look of youth; then she flitted in, pausing shyly 
to listen to his quick footsteps as they receded 
along the gravelled path. But she found Mauin 
Chloe sound asleep, with a look of utter peace 
upon her dusky face, which smoothed away 
every line of care and pain that had wrinkled it. 

“Oh, my Guardy! my darling,” she whis- 
pered, clasping her hands; “how very near you 
seem in the new happiness that springs up 
around me on every side! Surely, surely, our 
dear Lord rewards your pure soul by giving you 
a glimpse of His own loving Providence towards 
us all!” Then she closed the door gently, and 
went up-stairs to Mrs. Yellott, who was still 
sitting up, but looked feverish and excited. 

“This is contrary to hospital rules, dear Mrs. 
Yellott. I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting; 
but come, let me assist you now.” 

“Not yet, Lucia. Your not coming made no 
difference — Daphne would have done every- 
thing for me; but Mrs. Von Troomp has been 
with me, and, told me all about Maum Chloe! 
Oh, Lucia! do you think she will ever forgive 
my unkindness — my cruel unkindness at ‘ Hay- 
lands?’ I have been thinking over my life there, 
and now see. how exacting^ how . imperious and 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


584 

inconsiderate I was towards one who had been 
faithful and kind to me and mine.” 

“My dear Mrs. Yellott, have no anxiety on 
this score. Maum Chloe knows that you are 
here. I told her, and she feels nothing but a 
loving concern for you.” 

“Lucia, I always believe you; but how, how 
can she do anything but hate me?” said Mrs. 
Yellott, weeping silently. 

“Her old family love, to say nothing of the 
help of God’s grace,” said Lucia, gently. 

“Yes, with that all things are possible — even 
— even — oh, Lucia!” she exclaimed, clasping 
her hands, “even the conversion of my children, 
for whose souls my own is in travail and an- 
guish.” 

“Of course it is, all things being possible with 
God; but it is our first duty to hope for it with a 
strong, large faith in the loving kindness of God 
and the tender compassion of Our Mother of 
Sorrows.” 

“How you always comfort me, child!” said 
Mrs. Yellott, drawing Lucia’s head to her bosom. 
“How can I doubt the mercy of God, since He 
has done so much for me already? I tell you 
now what I will do: Doctor Dean says I must go 
down to-morrow and walk about the garden, and 
take my meals there every day when it is fine; I 
will go to Maum Chloe the first thing after I get 
down, and tell her myself how sorry I am for all 
the past.” 

“No need of such an act of humiliation, dear 
friend. Maum Chloe will know it by your com- 
ing to her,” answered Lucia, touched by the 
simple humility of her sentiments. 

“Lucia,” said Mrs. Yellott, after a short 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


5«5 

silence, “I am very proud yet, only it is another 
sort of pride. It does not appear to me that it’s 
a great humiliation to confess a fault when made 
conscious of it; there is, on the contrary, some- 
thing noble in a frank acknowledgment of wrong 
done, and I am made happier by the belief that 
reparation is as meritorious as renunciation.” 

Lucia knew by these words how perfect was 
the change wrought in Mrs. Yellott’s nature; for 
it showed that even her pride — that subtlest and 
most deadly enemy of souls — had been brought 
into subjection, purified of its venom, and used 
as the servant of her nobler Christian will. 
“Happiness on happiness!” thought Lucia, 
when in the solitude of her own quiet room she 
sat at the window, thinking over the events of 
the last few weeks, the last few hours. She 
measured happiness by its true and highest 
standard, and gave not a single regret to the 
transitory, fleeting, earthly treasures which to 
some minds give life its only value. And there 
was a sentiment of sweet humility in her glad- 
ness which prompted her to offer it as a precious 
incense of thanksgiving to the source whence it 
came, whispering in the depths of her heart: 
“Not unto me, but unto Thee, O Father of the 
fatherless and oppressed, be all the praise; unto 
Thee we offer the hearts consecrated by the oil 
of Thy gladness.” 


586 


Z0£’ S DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE LOST WILE. — CONCLUSION. 

A WEEK slipped by, and the old “Haylands n 
Bible had not yet been taken out to read the 
familiar stories that Maum Chloe so loved to 
hear; and the reason of it was, there was so 
much to tell and hear, day in and day out, that 
it seemed as if the end of it all would never be 
heard. Sometimes Mrs. Yellott, Father Hen- 
drick occasionally, Mrs. Von Troornp, Dr. Dean, 
Lucia and Daphne would all meet, dropping 
one after another into Maum Chloe’s room, glad- 
dening her poor old heart with their presence 
and the sound of their pleasant, cheerful voices. 
Sometimes Mrs. Von Troornp would let fly a 
“Gott!” when these happy people were going 
over and over again the events — always, how- 
ever, avoiding certain topics that would give 
pain — that had brought them so strangely to- 
gether, which not only made them laugh, but 
indicated that her slow-thinking mind found it 
difficult to settle how it had all happened. 

Then, one morning, Father Jannison and Mr. 
Allston arrived in New York, and going straight 
to Father Hendrick’s, heard from him all the 
particulars which astonished and delighted them. 
Mr. Allston declared that “truth was stranger 
than fiction” — “Because,” interrupted Father 
Jannison, “truth is of God; and all things work 


zot’s DAUGHTER. 587 

together, in His own mysterious way, for such 
as love Him and do His will.” 

“Well! I don’t know; but I have seen the 
wicked flourish like the green bay-tree!” said 
Mr. Allston, who delighted in such quips and 
quirks for the sake of bringing Father Jannison 
out. 

“Fora time, granted,” replied the venerable 
priest; “but when the axe is laid to the root of 
the tree, how then?” 

“It obeys the laws of gravity, and falls, of 
course. ’ ’ 

“And is cast into the fire,” answered Father 
Jannison. 

“Come now! you are coming your theology 
over me! I’m in the law, recollect; you only 
get at me on the law once, and see where you’ll 
find yourself, my friend,” replied this amiable 
old pagan, laughing, as he tapped his gold snuff- 
box and offered its fragrant contents to his copi- 
panions. 

Lucia, radiant and lovely, was on the “stoop” 
trimming a coral honeysuckle that made obsti- 
nate and vigorous efforts to extend its branches 
into the hall; Daphne stood watching and col- 
lecting the bright scarlet flowers as they were 
lopped off, when the click of the gate-latcli made 
them both look round quickly. A cry of joy 
escaped Lucia’s lips when she saw Father Janni- 
son and Mr. Allston coming up, and she scarcely 
knew how she got down from her perch on the 
step-ladder; but before they advanced half way 
she was with them, her hands clasped in theirs, 
telling them in words of loving welcome how 
glad she was to see them. Daphne stood wait- 
ing with a shy hope of being noticed — which 


588 ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 

she was, to her heart’s content, but scarcely rec- 
ognized by her old friends, she was so improved 
and grown; and Mr. Allston straightway took 
great credit to himself for having saved the 
modest, beautiful girl before him from a fate 
worse than death — forgetting how he had opposed 
it, and aided it only because he could not well 
help himself. 

Our limits forbid our dwelling on the details 
of Father Jannison’s and Mr. Allston’s intro- 
duction to Mrs. Von Troomp, and their long 
interview with Mrs. Yellott; but something 
occurred before they left the house that day 
which was the crowning event of all the re- 
markable things that had gone before, and can- 
not be omitted. 

After leaving Mrs. Yellott’s apartment, Lucia 
led them down to the “garden-room,” as it was 
called, to see Maum Chloe, who when she heard 
their familiar voices and felt her hands clasped 
in those of the old friends from her far-off home, 
gave way, after the emotional manner of her 
race, to her joy, and made a scene not only affect- 
ing but grotesque. Then when quiet was re- 
stored, Father Jannison sitting beside her chair 
fell into conversation with her, and heard all of 
her adventures and escapes, and whatever else 
had happened to her up to the moment of her 
meeting Lucia, while Mr. Allston and Lucia, 
nearer the “garden door,” were chatting and 
laughing together, his wit scintillating through 
all the pleasant pretty things he was saying to 
her, and she parrying his compliments in a 
manner which convinced him that with all her 
personal and intellectual charms the weakness 
of vanity had no place in her character. 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


589 

“And it’s all I saved. I let the rest go; 

but sink or swim, I held on to Mars’ Allan’s old 
Bible” — Mr. Allston heard Maum Chloe saying 
in a momentary pause in his conversation. 

“I am glad of that; I am heartily glad of 
that!” said the lawyer, suddenly growing seri- 
ous — “for now, thank God! I can satisfy a doubt 
that has long lain upon my heart like lead. 
Maum Chloe, have you got that old Book here?” 

“Yes, Mars’ Allston; it’s thar under my bed, 
in a box; it’s never been opened nor tetched 
since the time I brought it from the ‘Gre’t 
House ’ at Haylands. Miss Lucy, honey, you 
take it outen the box. Mrs. Von Troomp giv’ 
me the box — and it’s thar under the head of 
my bed.” 

“ That’s all right. Let me help you, Lucia, 
my dear,” said the lawyer, quick and alert in 
his movements. 

“Stop, Mr. Allston,” said Lucia, in a low 
voice, while she grew very pale; “I just com- 
prehend what you are after, and I want to tell 
you beforehand that should it be even as you 
think, I will have none of it.” 

“Don’t be a goose, Lucia; for there’s such a 
thing as Law, you know, and when people go to 
butting their heads against that, they get hurt. 
It’s none of your business what I’m after; but I 
tell you beforehand, my child, that I’m bent on 
carrying out the behests of Allan Brooke, should 
the will be found, if I die for it.” 

By this time Mr. Allston had drawn out the 
box — and placing it upon a table, lifted the lid, 
and there lay the old Brooke Bible, in its faded 
tattered green baize cover, looking just as he 
remembered having seen it on the old-fashioned 


590 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


stand in the corner of his friend’s room at { Hay- 
lands ’ hundreds of times. He put on his spec- 
tacles, and lifting out the Sacred Book, laid it 
carefully upon the table and opened it, while a 
speechless silence reigned in the room, but a few 
minutes before full of the sound of happy voices 
and kindly words. Lucia, pale and troubled, 
stood leaning on the high back of Father Janni- 
son’s chair, who regarded the proceedings with 
calm, grave eyes, and a strong trust in the will 
of God. 

Mr. Allston found a package — but on opening 
it, expecting to see the long-lost will, he saw the 
old yellow newspaper containing Allan Brooke’s 
first speech in Congress; it was lying where the 
ponderous volume always opened first, at the be- 
ginning of the Book of Tobit. Disappointed, he 
turned over the pages rapidly, one by one, but 
found only some pressed flowers that had rested 
on the master’s breast when he lay dead; in an- 
other place, a lock of his hair; in another a few 
bright-colored maple leaves; and here and there 
a strip of ribbon and some scraps of rich silk. 

“I fear it is not here after all,” muttered Mr. 
Allston. He had come at last to Revelations; 
then followed a Concordance, and some blank 
pages, which he flirted over in a spiteful way; 
and as he turned the very last one — there lay the 
will, just where Allan Brooke, on the night of 
the day Mr. Allston had brought it, and seen it 
duly signed and witnessed, had placed it. 

“Here it is, by — ” exclaimed Mr. Allston 
with an exultant cry. “Look, Jannison! It has 
never been touched since that day! Now all is 
accounted for! Brooke had given the Bible to 
Maum Chloe, and fearing that something might 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


591 


happen to the papers securing her freedom, he 
determined to take them up and slip them be- 
tween its pages; but instead of that he picked up 
this precious will, leaving the free papers and 
things where they were afterwards found, on the 
library table. I have no doubt he had been 
reading until after midnight, and being sleepy, 
did not examine what he had, feeling sure that 
it was what he intended to take. Mauin Chloe, 
you ought to be gilded and varnished, and set 
under a glass case forever!” 

“You g’long, Mars’ Allston! you always was 
as wild as a March hare; what does you mean 
now? I can’t ’xactly make out what you’s 
found; I ’spect its nothin’ but hen’s teeth,” said 
Maum Chloe, bewildered and half frightened. 

“I’ve found your master’s will, Aunty, that 
you’ve been toting around the^world with you 
ever since he signed it. I’m inclined to hurrah 
as loud as I can ” — 

“Don’t, Allston. Restrain yourself, for pity’s 
sake! Remember Mrs. Yellott!” said Father 
Jannison. 

“I do, poor lady!” replied Mr. Allston, sub- 
siding. “She must be considered, of course. 
But where’s Lucia?” 

Lucia had flown, and was at that instant 
kneeling before the altar at St. Gudule’s, agi- 
tated and distressed beyond measure at the 
thought of Mrs. Yellott; and when she came 
back it was only by the united arguments of 
Father Hendrick, who had been called into 
council, Mr. Allston and Father Jannison, that 
she could be brought to consider the matter in a 
reasonable light. 

“Half the estate belongs to the Yellotts,” 
said Father Jannison. 


592 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


“What’s left of their portion?” replied Mr. 
Allston, curtly. 

“‘Haylands’ is Lucia’s by provision of the 
will, whether she marry Frank Yellott or not,” 
remarked Father Jannison. 

“Yes, ‘Haylands’ is Lucia’s.” 

“But how shall we break this news to the 
poor lady up-stairs?” asked the venerable priest, 
with deep concern. 

“Friends!” said a voice at the door, which 
startled them and caused them to look quickly 
around, to see Mrs. Yellott herself standing 
within the room — “Friends, I have just learned 
from Daphne all that has happened, and I 
thank God, I assure you, that it is so. The 
weight of injustice to another has borne heavily 
upon me — although, as you now see, innocent 
of all complicity in it — and the suspicion against 
my son added wormwood to my reflections; for 
oh! I feared that tempted beyond his strength 
he might have in a moment of madness destroyed 
my brother’s will. But, thank God! he is at 
least clear of that crime, and this assurance 
reconciles me to all else.” 

“Madam,” said Mr. Allston, taking her hand 
and leading her to a chair, “such sentiments are 
natural to the sister of so noble a man as Allan 
Brooke was. Believe me that you have our un- 
divided and deep respect.” 

“I told you blood and brains always crapped 
out, Mars’ Jannison,” muttered Maum Cliloe. 
Mrs. Von Troomp, sent for by Lucia, was there 
with the rest; but she had spoken never a word, 
for she was trying to get it all satisfactorily ar- 
ranged in her own mind, and found it somewhat 
difficult to do so. 


ZO^’S DAUGHTER. 


593 


“I will consent to no change, Mr. Allston,” 
spoke out Lucia. “ Remember that ‘Haylands’ 
is Mrs. Yellott’s as long as she lives. I shall 
never return there!” 

“Never go back to ‘Haylands!’ I declare, 
Lucia, I’m afraid you’re non compos. Why 
won’t you go back to live among your own 
people?” 

“For a good reason, Mr. Allston,” she said, 
speaking firmly — for her spirit was up; “I have 
promised to marry Dr. Dean — and his interests 
lie here.” 

“Whew!” whistled Mr. Allston; “and who 
is Dr. Dean ? ’ ’ 

“Gott!” blurted Mrs. Von Troomp. She un- 
derstood that, if she couldn’t make out the rest 
clearly; and rising, she pushed back her chair, 
and marching solemnly over to Lucia, put her 
arms around her and kissed her. 

Then Mr. Allston had to be told who Roger 
Dean was, and the mercurial man, when he 
heard his noble record, not only graciously as- 
sented, but turned to congratulate Lucia; but 
she had the second time given him the slip, and 
was up in her own room, having a good wo- 
manly cry as she knelt at her prie-dieu before 
the image of Our Lady of Sorrows. 

Many long, long talks took place from day to 
day, between those people so strangely brought 
together, as to what was best to be determined; 
for Lucia stood fast by what she had said, and 
Roger Dean fully agreed with her, approving 
her motive equally with her act. Mrs. Von 
Troomp shook her head; she was sorry for Mrs. 
Yellott, but thought it made but a poor out- 
look for Roger and Lucia; and she predicted 


594 


ZOt’S DAUGHTER. 


that they would live from hand to mouth all 
their days, being so given to throwing away the 
gifts of Providence, and placing no earthly value 
on money. It was finally decided that “Hay- 
lands” was to be Mrs. Yellott’s home, and that 
Lucia’s portion of bank stock and other moneys 
should be divided, and one-half settled upon her 
during her life, to revert to Lucia or her heirs 
after her death. Mr. Allston talked himself 
hoarse, and fretted and fumed beyond measure, 
at what he considered a most eccentric and un- 
necessary proceeding; but it was useless — for 
Lucia was not to be moved from her purpose. 
Then some legal processes had to be gone 
through, numerous papers signed and witnessed, 
and everything was settled. 

Father Jannison had ill news to impart to 
Mrs. Yellott about her children — a painful task 
to the gentle-hearted old man, and he got over 
it as kindly as the character of his communica- 
tions permitted; but smooth over such things as 
one will, they pierce and sting a mother’s heart 
all the same, and the poison of the shaft is just as 
deadly as if sped by an enemy’s hand, — it is not 
the way but the substance of it that hurts, hurts 
sometimes unto death. Her youngest daughter 
had eloped with a dissipated young spendthrift — 
a man of honorable family, but who was devoted 
to the turf and gaming-table, and was one of the 
boon companions of her brother, who had “wasted 
his substance in riotous living,” and now gained 
a precarious subsistence by the chances of gam- 
bling. The eldest daughter was at “Haylands,” 
where she lived without society, having com- 
promised her reputation by an imprudent inti- 
macy with an adventurer lately come into the 


ZOE’S DAUGHTER. 


595 


neighborhood, whom no one knew, and whose 
antecedents and means of support were an 
enigma even to the sportsmen* he associated 
with. As to Frank Yellott himself, Father Jan- 
nison’s accounts were rather vague and unsatis- 
factory. He was seldom at “Haylands,” but 
when he was the house was the scene of debauch- 
eries and violence indescribable. He played 
high, had sold numbers of the most valuable 
slaves, and ill-treated the rest. She would hear 
all the truth; it was a self-inflicted penance, 
which made her shiver with anguish; but she had 
the courage that belonged to her race, and now 
to temper it she had the grace of submission to 
the chastisements which He permitted. * * 

Later on, when the banks of the Hudson 
glowed with scarlet, green, brown, crimson and 
yellow,, and the Indian summer hung its filmy 
tissues in the air; when the dying woods sent 
forth an odor of mingled bitter and sweet, like 
the last faint breathings of a saint whose final 
triumph is at hand, a grand nuptial Mass was 
celebrated at St. Gudule’s — Father Jannison, as- 
sisted by Father Hendrick, officiating. It was 
the wedding day of Lucia D’Olivieras and Ro- 
ger Dean. The children of the congregation, 
dressed in white, had strewn the aisle with flow- 
ers, and the main altar, and the smaller one 
dedicated to the Virgin Mother of Jesus, were 
decorated by the rarest and loveliest that could 
be found, by Mrs. Yellot’s exquisite taste. And 
the bride, standing by the side of him whom 
she had chosen for weal or woe, looked very 

*An old Southern word for men addicted to the turf and 
gaming. 


ZC>£’S DAUGHTER. 


596 

lovely, and every one noted as they approached 
the altar that the expression of her face was that 
of one who goes to receive Holy Communion — 
it was of such blended purity and tranquil hap- 
piness, tempered by a gravity naturally sug- 
gested by the serious responsibilities she as- 
sumed. 

Mr. Allston gave the bride away; and Maum 
Chloe, proud and happy, sat in a front pew near- 
est the altar, where she heard all, and by her 
vivid fancy pictured everything that was going 
on. Mrs. Von Troomp and Dr. Siegel — with 
Daphne close by — stood near the bridal group, 
happy, in their stolid German way, beyond ex- 
pression. Father Hendrick made a brief and 
touching address to the newly-wedded pair, after 
which the children sang a marriage hymn taught 
them by the new organist, in loud, sweet strains, 
with all the force and freshness of their happy 
young hearts, which affected L,ucia with an in- 
describable emotion. 

But how was she dressed? and how did Dr. 
Dean look? Natural questions both. In the 
first place, she was dressed as a Catholic bride 
should always be — modestly. Her own desire 
was to be arrayed with the most perfect simplic- 
ity for the occasion, but she yielded to the wishes 
of her friends, and especially of Maum Chloe, 
who declared “it would be enough to make all 
the dead Ramseys, and Mais’ Allan his own 
self, turn in their graves, to think of sich poor 
white folks’ doin’s. ” So to make them all happy 
she wore a rich white satin robe, with draperies 
of fine rare lace which had been her mother’s, 
and a veil — the gift of her betrothed — which 
covered her from head to foot under its trans- 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


597 


parent folds, and was fastened by a few white 
flowers, whether orange flowers or not I do not 
recollect, but am under the impression that they 
were clematis blossoms. Her only ornament 
was her mother’s diamond cross, which Mr. 
Allston had brought her with the other pieces 
of the set left after the sale of her diamonds, 
for Daphne’s redemption from slavery, to the 
Amsterdam diamond-merchant in Baltimore. 

Roger Dean ? — he looked supremely happy, in 
his grave quiet, way, and as if what he vowed 
that day before God and man he meant to fulfil in 
all Christian faith and knightly honor. 

Joel Winkle and his wife, with “Norway 
Bill,” were present, invited guests; and when 
they got a fair look at Mrs. Dean’s face, as the 
nuptial party came down the aisle, the old tar 
dug his elbow into Joel Winkle’s ribs and 
blurted out audibly: “I say, shipmate! thar’s 
the spook; split my timbers if it ain’t!” 

After the wedding collation and the congratu- 
lations were over, the newly-wedded pair went 
away to spend a few quiet weeks at a charming 
cottage which Dr. Dean had bought and fur- 
nished for the occasion, after which they were 
going to Europe for a year. 

One day about the middle of October a brave 
ship sailed from New York harbor, and when 
the sun set golden on her sails she was rocking 
far out. on the Atlantic, and two persons leaned 
over the side, looking almost sadly towards the 
dim line of shore, which in the distance looked 
like blue vapors hanging low along the horizon. 
They were Roger Dean and his wife; and pres- 
ently they seated themselves in a sheltered 
place, for the wind grew chilly as the sun went 


ZC)£’S DAUGHTER. 


598 

down, and he told her in low tender words how 
he had happened to learn all about the part she 
had taken in saving his life on the day of the 
high tide; he showed her the handkerchief Joel 
Winkle had brought him, and as a proof that 
gratitude alone did not inspire his love, he drew 
out of his pocket-book and placed in her hand 
the long tress of hair he had cut from her head 
the night she lay so badly hurt at Fritz Ham- 
mers tavern after the stage accident, and worn 
next his heart ever since — and she knew that he 
loved her before he knew her. 

“And so you held me by this, did you?” said 
Lucia, drawing the long beautiful tress lightly 
through her fingers. “How do I know,” she 
added with a merry laugh, “but that you put 
some magic spell upon me with your two talis- 
mans? ” 

“If so, it is a spell of great happiness, blessed 
by Almighty God and consecrated by our one 
faith. But ‘spell’ is not the word, dear wife; 
our union is a true Sacrament.” And Lucia’s 
heart filled with the deepest emotions of grati- 
tude to Heaven for so guiding her destiny. 

And while they continued talking in low, con- 
fidential tones, twilight had stolen on and the 
mists of the mighty Atlantic chilled the night 
winds that came sweeping up through the shad- 
ows. A gentleman with a cigar in his mouth 
sauntered up and seated himself not far from 
them, and was followed in a few moments by a 
lady who was guided to his exact whereabouts 
by the glowing spark at the end of his cigar. 
She brought on her arm a great English travel- 
ing shawl, which she threw around him, ex- 
claiming: 


ZO£’S DAUGHTER. 


599 


“You wicked boy! you are more trouble than 
a brood of ducklings to a young ben! You’ll 
turn my hair white — indeed you will! How 
could you go and give me the slip, and come out 
in the damp with nothing around you? I ex- 
pect, my child, that you’ll have the croup, 
maybe the whooping-cough. ” All this time she 
was arranging the shawl around him, pulling it 
up close around his throat. 

“I’m sure I know that voice,” whispered 
Lucia. 

4 ‘ Lally, you are the most consummate goose 
I ever knew in my life. Stop, my dear; you’ll 
certainly smother me!” the “naughty boy” 
remonstrated. 

“No, I won’t! I tell you I don’t want you to 
be sewed up in a hammock and dropped into the 
ocean for a big whale to swallow. The captain 
told me at dinner that they do that to people who 
die at sea — and you will, if you catch cold and 
have some of those pleuro things you threaten 
me with so often.” 

Lucia was certain now; and approaching the 
pair, she spoke and offered her hand. 

“Lally Chesney, if I am not mistaken?” 

“You have the advantage of me. That is my 
name — but — Good gracious! — it can’t be Lucia 
D’Olivieras! ” she exclaimed, as Lucia turned 
her face where the light from one of the ship’s 
lanterns fell full upon it. “ How did you get 
here? I wasn’t out at dinner; my darling little 
Ettrick Shepherd was so dreadfully sea-sick I 
had to stay with him.” While thus speaking, 
she was embracing Lucia as she might have 
done a long-lost sister. Introductions and friendly 
greetings followed, and Lally Chesney was 


6oo 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


greatly astonished when she learned that Lucia 
was no longer D’Olivieras, but the wife of the 
noble-looking man by her side. 

“But who did she mean by the ‘Ettrick Shep- 
herd?’ ” asked Roger Dean, after they separated 
for the night. 

“Her dog. I must tell you about that dog 
some day.” 

The old schoolmates were very happy in each 
other’s society, and Roger Dean found much 
amusement in Lally Chesn^y’s absurd ways with 
her father, who contributed by his high culti- 
vation and intelligence to lighten the tedium of 
six weeks’ life on shipboard. It was a happy 
party, and we bid them adieu with regret, won- 
dering shall we ever hear of them again. 

The pretty quadroon, Daphne, remained with 
Mrs. Yellott until the latter was recalled home 
by the sudden illness of her daughter at Hay- 
lands; after which she lived with Mrs. Von 
Troomp, awaiting “Miss Lucia’s” return from 
abroad. 

Frank Yellott, enraged at the turn affairs had 
taken, after trying his best to substantiate a 
charge of conspiracy and forgery and intent to 
swindle against the trustees of Allan Brooke’s 
will, finding all fail, gathered the last remnants 
of his heritage together and went to F ranee, 
where he managed to get a commission in the 
imperial army, and perished miserably on the 
retreat from Moscow, after having won distinc- 
tion by his reckless bravery under the eye of 
Napoleon at Austerlitz. 

Mrs. Yellott’ s last days were consoled by the 
conversion of her daughters, and, united, they 
did their best to make reparation to the people 


ZO&’S DAUGHTER. 


601 


at Havlands for all they had suffered through 
their haughtiness, their excesses, and selfish 
greed. Bligh managed for them; and once a 
year the Deans, accompanied by Maum Chloe, 
while she lived, made the Yellotts a visit, who 
received them with glad welcome, and parted 
from them with true regret. 

Father Jannison lived to see all this; then, 
full of years, ripe in good works and charity, like 
a sheaf of wheat ready for the garner, he fell 
asleep in the Lord, blessing those whose sorrows 
he had borne and in whose happiness he had re- 
joiced, blessing his flock and his brethren, and 
leaving them precious memories for their conso- 
lation and help, which were like the “odor of 
the saints.” Requiesccit in pace . 


















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